


It's the Thought That Counts

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-18 18:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13105737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: It was, in theory, a good idea. It was, in theory, an absolutely fantastic idea. Because there was still, sometimes, a crisis or two in Storybrooke and nothing would be more chaotic than trying to find a Christmas present on Main Street, while also trying to keep said Christmas present a secret. Ordering gifts on the internet makes sense. It's just a few clicks and online sales and the presents will be there in plenty of time for Christmas to be perfect.Emma and Killian are positive.Except then the presents don't show up and it's Christmas Eve and plan B isn't so much a plan as it is just a bit of pre-holiday desperation and the entire town knows what they're up to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProtoChan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoChan/gifts).



He can’t seem to stop swearing.

Henry can’t seem to stop laughing.

He should probably stop swearing so Henry will stop laughing and then...maybe help him figure what the _bloody hell_ to do next.

“We shouldn’t have trusted that...that...thing,” Killian says, pointing distractedly towards the computer in the corner of the room and Henry snickers, eyes barely moving away from the phone in his hand. “I knew it wasn’t going to work.”  
  
“The internet or the postal service?” Henry asks. Killian does his best not to actually groan and slam his hook into the computer. “Because I really don’t think this had much to do with the internet. Your orders went through. They’re just not going to…”  
  
“Be here on time,” he finishes and Henry shrugs. “What did the message say again?”  
  
Henry finally pulls his gaze away from the screen in front of him, something that feels a bit like _placating_ practically rolling off him and Killian still wants to hit something.

There isn’t a Christmas equivalent in the Enchanted Forest, per se, but he understands the basic idea of something vaguely festive and the thought of being able to buy gifts for Emma and Henry, even under the guise of _holiday requirements_ , left him feeling excited and hopeful and determined to do all of this right.

And after everything – curses and Dark Ones and altered memories and timelines and death and, well, _everything_ – a few days of uninterrupted peace with Emma smiling at him the same way she had when she’d explained Christmas was, suddenly, the single most appealing thought in the entire world.

Plus several other realms.

So, perhaps, he’s gone a little overboard. Perhaps he’d asked Henry for help and Henry’s first suggestion was to _order it all online because then it’ll be a surprise_ and, well, that made sense too. The last thing Killian needed was every single purchase announced in the middle of Main Street like a brand-new bit of magic set to descend on the town.

It didn’t take long – clicking on links and sites and he’d gotten fairly good at research over the last several crises, so finding the _perfect_ gift was an undertaking Killian was more than willing to shoulder, particularly when Henry informed him that everything would just be delivered to their front door.

“It’s honestly a little like magic,” Henry promised a few weeks before, slinging his legs over the side of the couch with the laptop balanced on his knees. Killian twisted his hand, eyes wide and the unspoken command to _sit up_ practically hanging in the air between them.

Henry rolled his eyes.

And moved his legs.

“You can’t possibly be comfortable like that,” Killian said, dropping onto the far corner when Henry put the laptop on the coffee table in front of them.

“That’s not the point of this conversation.”  
  
“And what is the point of this conversation?”  
  
“Getting Mom a good gift, obviously,” Henry sighed as if it were the clearest thing in the world. It was. “This is...well it’s important. And Mom said since people could cross the town line without, you know…”  
  
“Forgetting themselves completely?”  
  
Henry scowled at him and, that time, it was Killian who shrugged. “Yeah,” Henry muttered. “That. Well, you can order stuff online and someone will show up with the packages and then you can totally get a ton of bonus points with Mom.”

“I’m not sure I’m in need of any bonus points.”  
  
“Ew. I’m just saying. You order a bunch of stuff online and then you don’t have to worry about Leroy or Archie spilling your gift-giving secrets the first second they see Mom. Plus, you know, more variety.”  
  
Killian quirked an eyebrow, gaze darting from the slightly over-enthusiastic teenager next to him to the images on the screen – a site that promised _New and Interesting Finds_ and _12 Days of Deals_ , whatever that meant.

Henry didn’t seem troubled by any of it, tapping on keys and shouting out ideas and, a few hours later, Killian was buying things and agreeing to plans and getting order confirmations that promised his _packages would be delivered by December 23rd at the latest_.

Only now, it’s December 24th and there are no packages sitting at the front door and he's inching closer and closer to _discouraged_ with every passing moment.

“It still says what it did before,” Henry grumbles, sinking onto the arm of the couch and at least he’s not draped over it like usual. It’s, Killian has found, a strange habit both he and Emma share – twisting their body parts over furniture in a way that certainly can’t be comfortable or beneficial for any of their muscles. Neither one of them ever seem to mind.

“That, and I’m quoting here, due to unforeseen circumstances at the distribution center, there is a delay on all arrivals and that you should anticipate your orders on…..” Henry clicks his tongue, making a face and squeezing one eye shut. “December 29th. At the latest.”

Killian heaves another sigh, head thrown back in frustration and Henry makes a sympathetic noise because December 29th is not Christmas and this Christmas is supposed to be something special and now they’ve all been outsmarted by magic.

It’s incredibly frustrating.

“I mean, you know, at least they’ve given you a new date,” Henry reasons, tilting his head and doing his best to smile. It’s an almost movement-for-movement replication of the way Emma looks when she tries to reason her way out of anything.

“Several days after Christmas,” Killian points out. “You know your gifts were part of that order as well.”  
  
Henry nods despondently. “Yeah, I know, but, well…”  
  
He trails off and, finally, flops back onto the couch, knocking over several different and incredibly patterned pillows at the same time he tugs on the blanket draped over the back. Killian immediately regrets every single sigh he’s made, or thought about making, in the last ten minutes and they’re going to fix this.

He’s battled monsters and magic and krakens and can pick out constellations in more than half a dozen different realms. Surely he can conquer Christmas presents.

Even if that requires him to bribe all seven dwarves into silence.

On pain of death. Or hook.

He’s still not convinced he won’t destroy the computer with his hook.

Killian takes a step forward, balancing on the edge of the coffee table and Henry eyes him like he’s just broken every single rule in the house. No one is supposed to sit on the coffee table. It’s an antique.

“This is not your fault, lad,” he says, tugging the phone away from Henry and tossing it without much thought into one of the other chairs.

Henry growls. It’s becoming a more and more frequent noise. “Yeah, I know,” he mutters. “But…”  
  
“But?”  
  
“You weren’t the only one who ordered things online.”  
  
Killian feels his eyes widen slightly and it’s probably not the best response because Henry immediately makes another noise, mumbling a string of curses under his breath that are almost verbatim to what he said earlier. He’s fairly certain Henry wouldn’t know where to send a particularly troublesome sea monster otherwise.

“That so?” Killian asks, smirking out of instinct and interest and Violet was at the house two days before. Both she and Henry leapt several feet in the air when Killian and Emma came home from patrol, laden down with grocery bags and he’d never seen the poor lass move quicker than she did while attempting to leave.

Henry’s face may still be slightly flushed.

“Can that table hold you?” Henry counters speculatively and Killian’s eyebrows shift again.  

“The table is perfectly fine. The same may not be true, however, for the entire Christmas event if we don’t do something about the gift situation.”  
  
Henry’s lips twitch like he’s trying to bite back a smile and his hair falls towards his eyes when he flips his head to stare at Killian. “You don’t have to call it _the entire Christmas event_ every time you mention it,” he says, but there’s a note of excitement just on the edge of his voice that brings back memories of picking a house and, eventually, filling a house with antique furniture that they aren’t supposed to sit on. “You can just call it Christmas.”  
  
“Noted,” Killian grins. “Now what do you say to a gifting operation?”  
  
“It needs a good name.”  
  
“Of course it does. That’s up to you though.”  
  
“Why? My first plan went to crap.”  
  
Killian narrows his eyes and he’s still not sure if he’s got a very firm grasp on _discipline_ , but Henry seems to sag a bit further into the couch cushions and maybe neither one of them will send particularly troublesome sea monsters anywhere for the rest of Christmas.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Henry mutters. “I know. And don’t you have to work? Mom said something about some report of a weird snowstorm just….like in the middle of the woods.”  
  
“We’re fairly certain that was all speculative. And possibly some drunken story passed around the Rabbit Hole a few days ago because every time we’ve heard about it, it changed. And snow is rather common this time of year, isn’t it?”  
  
Henry shrugs, an impressive feat considering the twisted way he’s still lying on the couch. “I’m just saying. If you blow off work, Mom’s going to know something’s up.”  
  
“No one is blowing anything off. We’ll come up with an excuse.”  
  
“A lie? On Christmas?”  
  
“It is not a lie,” Killian argues, but the words already feel heavy on his tongue and Henry’s getting very good at lifting one eyebrow. It does something ridiculous to his stomach. “It is...a calculated move.”  
  
“Against who, exactly?”  
  
“Christmas.”  
  
“You’re making moves against Christmas?”

Killian tries not to sigh again, but it probably wouldn’t matter because Henry is already hysterical, whole body shaking with laughter and eyes closed tightly and they’re wasting valuable shopping time. “We,” Killian corrects pointedly. “Are going to purchase things because this realm can’t seem to get its dates correct or a workforce that values timeliness.”  
  
Henry will probably never stop laughing.

“You’re a pirate,” he chuckles. “You’re not supposed to be advocating for a productive workforce.”

“Do you think a ship will simply sail itself if the crew isn’t willing to work? Or if one of the crewmembers skirts his duties? That’s how ships sink, lad.”  
  
“Alright, well, this took a decidedly not-Christmas turn.”  
  
“Then it seems like it’s time for you to come up with an operation name, don’t you think? And find my phone so I can call your mother.”  
  
Henry’s shoulders shake again, but he swings his legs back on the ground and grins at Killian with a look that’s both conspiratorial and something that feels a bit like allegiance. They are, it seems, ready to make a bold move against Christmas.

“Operation: Wrapping Paper,” Henry intones and he’s clearly done it for the reaction because the grin that breaks out on his face when Killian tilts his head in confusion is far too big to be anything but planned.

“You’re going to have to explain that one, lad,” Killian says, standing up and he can almost make out his phone ringing somewhere. It’s probably in the kitchen.

Henry’s grin gets wider. “Your phone’s definitely not in the kitchen. That’s coming from upstairs.”

Bedroom it is then. “And,” he adds. “That is a crazy loud volume. You should probably fix that. Did you not get wrapping paper yet, though? For real?”  
“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re telling me,” Killian mutters, taking the stairs two at a time and his phone is sitting in the middle of the bed when he all but sprints into the room.

It’s stopped ringing.

It’s dinging instead.

“Bloody fu…” he hisses, grabbing the stupid thing off the blanket and he’s got two missed calls from Snow and one from Emma and, it appears, they’re working together because the phone starts ringing in his hand.

He doesn’t even have a chance to open his mouth before there’s a slightly frantic voice in his ear.

“Killian?” Emma asks and his eyes widen immediately, defense rising and he’s already half a step closer to the door than he was a moment before. “Where are you?”  
  
“Home, Swan and uh…”  
  
“Oh, ok, good.”  
  
“Is something wrong, love?”

She makes a dismissive noise on the other end and he’s fairly certain he can hear Snow muttering something, but it all sounds a bit jumbled and some of that noise might just be Emma pacing in the sheriff's office.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” she says quickly. “Totally fine.”  
  
“You’re a rather terrible liar, you know that? Did something happen with this snowstorm?”

He can almost see her shaking her head, the sound of her hair brushing against the screen making it nearly impossible to hear her footsteps. There’s a third voice in the sheriff’s station. It’s, absolutely, David.

“Swan,” Killian starts and she must nearly jump to attention on the other side of town because he hears her curse softly when she slams into, what sounds like, her desk. “You’ve got to tell me what’s going on because I’m thinking I may just stay home if there isn’t anything else…”  
  
He can’t finish the sentence and he has no idea what he’s going to say because he doesn’t really want to lie to Emma, on Christmas or any other day, but she’s so clearly distracted he’s already got half a mind to walk to work.

He doesn’t get a chance to move.

Emma’s already shouting things again.

“Yes,” she yells and it sounds like David has started laughing, ignoring his daughter’s not-so-quiet reprimands. “Yes! You should absolutely, definitely stay home.”  
  
Killian makes a face at the open air in front of him, not sure why he feels the warning bells in the back of his head, but Emma’s voice is just a bit too enthusiastic. It sounds suspiciously like Henry’s when he promised he and Violet were _just hanging out_ alone on the couch.

Emma inhales sharply when she realizes what she’s said and he can picture her, right there in front of him, eyebrows pinched and lower lip tugged tightly between her teeth and David is certainly related to Henry because he can’t seem to stop laughing either.

“Wait,” she says suddenly. “Why do you want to stay home? Are you ok?”  
  
“You called me, Swan,” Killian counters. “And told me I should be staying home.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Yeah? No explanation? Just...yeah?”  
  
“Uh….” she stammers. “Yes?”  
  
He barks out a laugh before he can stop himself, something flashing through his whole body that feels a lot like _love_ , but might just be whatever _festive spirit_ both Emma and Henry claim exists in this realm. “That’s not much of a change, darling,” Killian says and Emma sighs, the sounds of her decidedly squeaky desk chair working through the phone. “And you need a new chair.”  
  
“We need a new everything in this office, we’ve been over that eight-hundred times.”  
  
“True,” he agrees. “That’s still not an explanation though. Why do you want me to stay home?”  
  
“Why do you want to be staying home?”

They have, apparently, reached some kind of not-quite-lie, hopefully Christmas-type stalemate. This holiday is far more trouble than he anticipated. “Killian,” Emma prompts and he needs to say something because he can still hear Snow talking and David mumbling something about _tomorrow night_ and _gifts_ and this is supposed to be important.

“It’s nothing,” he says, but it sounds as obvious as anything and she _tuts_ quietly when he doesn’t immediately continue. “Just feeling a little under the weather and I don’t want to miss any of your parent’s plans tomorrow.”

It’s, naturally, not the worst lie he’s ever told.

He’s told more lies than he can even begin to fathom and this is far from the most devious.

It’s not even a particularly well-executed lie – there’s stumbling and elongated pauses and Henry’s arrived in the hallway with a knowing smile on his face and his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

It’s also quite obvious that it is, in fact, a lie.

Emma doesn’t even try to hide her scoff and Killian can feel the blush rising in his neck, the desire to tug on the hair behind his ear somewhere close to overwhelming. “That was almost painfully bad,” she mutters, but there’s still a note of amusement in her voice and a distinct lack of the _overwhelmed_ it held just a few moments before.

“She totally figured you out, huh?” Henry asks. His attempts at whispering the question come up woefully short.

Killian shakes his head. “If you don’t need me in the station or questioning dwarves about weather patterns than I’m happy to stay home for the day, love,” he continues. “Although I think we both need to work on our excuses.”  
  
“It’s not an excuse,” Emma says. “It’s...whatever. There are no weather issues because that snowstorm thing was a total lie and Dad went to go check it out already anyway. So there’s...you know...not a ton going on here.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“You are infuriating when you’re all-knowing.”  
  
“I’m not anything, Swan. Except possibly learning what something called wrapping paper is.”

“Now you’ve done it,” Henry mumbles and Killian flashes him a warning look and he’s going to have bribe every single person in town so no one else learns about the present debacle.

Emma laughs, free and easy and they need to go buy things. Hours ago. “Wrapping paper, huh?” she asks and her grin is obvious even without her in front of him. “Interesting. Any particularly good patterns on this wrapping paper?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ah, we haven’t gotten that far in the instructional period, huh?”

“Not as such, no,” Killian answers, taking a step out of the room and pushing lightly on Henry’s shoulders until they’re both moving back down the hallway. “But I’m sure we’ll get to that part of the rules eventually.”  
  
She’s quiet for a moment and Killian freezes, halfway between tugging on one boot and hoping his keys are still in his jacket pocket. “What?” he asks.

“I just...I mean there aren’t rules to this, you know. It’s not like I’m…”  
Killian waits for the rest of the sentence, but it doesn't come and his legs are starting to ache from crouching. “Swan?”

“I mean presents are good, but you know we didn’t really talk about gifts and you don’t have to…”  
  
“I want to,” Killian corrects. She probably scrunches her nose. She _absolutely_ scrunches her nose. Henry makes some kind of vaguely insulted face.

It’s silent for another moment, save for the very squeaky, absolutely torturous chair behind Emma’s desk. He refuses to sit in it.

He can hear her sigh softly, but it doesn’t sound disappointed, it sounds a bit surprised and, perhaps, just a little hopeful and it makes his chest ache because they’ve waited for this and wanted this and there need to be presents.

He’s going to buy her a present come hell or high water.

And he’s already been to hell.

This, by comparison, should be relatively easy.

“See, saying things like that out loud is just absolutely unfair,” Emma says. Killian’s heel pops into his boot. “What am I supposed to think about for the rest of the day?”  
  
He grins. Henry gags. “Hopefully that,” Killian admits. And that time David might gag. Maybe Henry should just go shopping with David.

“Ah, that was even worse.”  
  
“You’re telling me these things like they’re an insult, Swan. I’m failing to see that point of view at all. It all seems almost romantic.”  
  
“Almost,” she echoes and his keys are still in his pocket. Henry is practically sprinting out the door. “You really don’t have to come in today. We’ve got everything taken care of and I’m just going to get caught up on some paperwork while things are still quiet.”  
  
“You’ve told me several times I don’t have to come in today, love, I understand.”

He doesn’t move – dimly aware that the wind will pick up on his phone and he’s already told enough Christmas lies for one day – and Emma hums distractedly at the explanation. “Right, right,” she says. “And, you know, paperwork. Lots of it.”  
  
Killian doesn’t have any magic, at least not anymore, but actual centuries spent on the Jolly Roger left him with a fairly strong sense of _reading people_ , particularly insubordinate crewmembers with visions of mutiny and control and while he might not consider himself Captain Hook anymore, he hasn't completely lost the talent.

And Emma Swan, savior and princess and the love his very long life, isn’t planning a mutiny is, but she is, quite clearly, up to something.

He’d finished all the paperwork two days before.

“Right,” Killian agrees, curiosity lingering in the back corner of his mind even when he knew he didn’t have time for an interrogation over the phone. “Paperwork.”

Emma makes another noise and he can hear it for the dismissal it absolutely is. “Exactly,” she says, snapping her jaw on the word. “So, uh….I’m going to go do that and you’re going to stay home and probably read, like, twenty books.”  
  
“Seems rather ambitious, don’t you think, love?”  
  
“The paperwork or the books?”  
  
“Either or.”  
  
She laughs softly before the chair squeaks again and she’s standing, the sound of her boots echoing off the walls of the otherwise uneventful office. “I’ll see you later,” Emma says. “For movies and hot chocolate.”  
  
“I look forward to it, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, me too. I love you.”

He’s lost track of the number of times she’s said it now – the words that were, at one point, some kind of insurmountable challenge now seem to just roll out of her as easy as breathing and just as important – but the sentence never fails to make his heart stutter and his breath catch and Killian swallows before he responds.

“I love you too,” he says and it feels bigger than that because there are traditions to be started and presents to be bought and it’s going to be easy to find exactly what she deserves.

It is, Killian is loathe to find out, not easy to find...anything in the middle of Storybrooke with only a few hours before Christmas.

It is, he’s discovering, close to impossible.

And it is, possibly, because he’s so goddamn picky.

At least that’s what Henry tells him when they leave the one clothing story Storybrooke has to offer with nothing in hand and no idea where to go next.

“You’re really horrible at this, you know that?” Henry asks, all judgement and little suggestion just a few steps removed from the store windows that are decorated with something, apparently, called garland. “That one jacket wasn’t that bad.”  
  
Killian runs his hand through his hair, frustration sinking into every inch of him and they’re running out of places to go. The one store that particularly cheerful dwarf runs filled with knick-knacks and, what Henry referred to as _tourist stuff_ , was a waste of nearly forty-five minutes and the idea of recreating his first date with Emma seemed to personally offend his stepson and, now, the clothing store was also a failure, with apparel that didn’t just seem impractical for this realm, it felt far too similar to what was going to land on their doorstep on December 29th.

Hopefully.

If whatever magic that made sure the packages got where there were supposed to go decided to do its job.

“That one jacket wouldn’t have lasted a single crisis here,” Killian argues. “The stitching was coming undone right in front of us. I’m surprised it didn’t simply fall apart in my hand.”  
  
Henry raises his eyebrows at him, what looks like several dozen questions waiting to be asked at the same time sitting on the tip of his tongue. Killian waits. And he’s not disappointed. “How do you know that?” Henry asks, voice picking up and he barely gets one word out before he starts on the next one. “Did you...do you know people who made clothes? Like the shoemaker?”  
  
Killian narrows his eyes and Henry makes a slightly disappointed noise. “You know with the elves,” he says as if that’s a clue.

“I’ve never encountered a single elf,” Killian says. “Although there were rumors about a land outside of the Enchanted Forest where the elves there made impenetrable armor. That always seemed rather appealing.”  
  
“Did you ever go there?” Henry’s eyes widen to an almost comical size and Killian flashes him a grin, never one to turn down a captivated audience.

“I’m not sure there was much truth to it, my boy. Just an old story to keep sailors occupied at night. After all, there’s something to be said for pillaging when you can’t be injured.”  
  
Henry nods quickly, eyes still wide and Killian rests his hand on his shoulder. “You know, elves are a pretty big part of Christmas too.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“Yeah, I mean, they’re not making armor for pirates, but they help make the toys. Or at least that’s what parents tell their kids when they’re younger.” Killian tilts his head and there is, apparently, far more to this Christmas _event_ than he originally realized. “Ah, we didn’t get to Miracle on 34th Street yet, did we? Well, when we’re little, parents here tell their kids that if they’re good then Santa will bring them presents.”  
  
“And Santa is...also an elf?”  
  
“No, no, no, he’s some guy.”  
  
“Some guy?” Killian repeats skeptically and the storytelling tables seem to have turned rather abruptly. Henry shrugs, as if that’s an appropriate answer. “So what you’re telling me is that fabrications are part of Christmas?”  
  
“What?”

“Parents are lying to their children to get them to behave. This Santa fellow, he doesn’t really exist does he?”  
  
“At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if he did in some other realm, honestly,” Henry admits, shrugging again and Killian is momentarily worried about the state of his neck before his eyes catch sight of something yellow and a flash of red and he swears he can hear her boots crunching on the snow.

“Bloody hell,” Killian growls, moving his hand away from Henry’s shoulder to tug on his wrist and he’s dimly aware of a disgruntled _jeez, Killian you’re going to dislocate my arm_ before they’re moving into the alley behind the store.

They’re a mess of stumbling feet and twisted up limbs and he tries to keep his left arm pinned to his side in an attempt to avoid some other catastrophe. Henry gapes at him like he’s lost his mind, mouth open and questions threatening, but he snaps his jaw shut when he hears the voices moving across the street – directly onto the sidewalk they were just standing on.

“I’m just saying,” Snow says and it doesn’t sound like it’s the first time she’s tried to make her point. Emma’s breathing gets a little louder, footsteps falling with a bit more determination as if she’s trying to work out some residual energy and Killian bites back a smile.

Paperwork.  
  
Of course.

“Yeah, well, I’m just saying,” Emma argues. Henry slams his hand over his mouth so he doesn’t start laughing. “Mom, this needs to be good. It can’t just be…”

She stops talking and, by the sound of it, stops walking and Snow mutters something that sounds like a question. “Those are recent,” Snow says. “And moving back into the alley. Why would anyone be going back there?”

Killian rolls his eyes skyward, trying to keep his breathing as quiet as possible and his frustration as low as possible, but both seem decidedly impossible because, apparently, Christmas Eve exists only to test his patience.

He widens his eyes towards Henry when he feels an elbow in his side and they both try to occupy the same four feet of slightly shadowed space.

“Do you think they know it’s us?” Henry whispers and he shakes his head, determined to will it into being because he absolutely wants to believe it.

Emma clicks her tongue a few feet away. “Yeah,” she mutters. “Why would anyone want to be in this alley? You think there’s a door to the store back there?”  
  
Snow doesn’t answer and Killian barely hears Henry’s frantic _oh shit_ before he’s the one being pulled further down the alley, Emma’s footsteps echoing in his ears because, of course, she’s come to investigate.

She probably went to double check on the weather reports in the woods herself.

Killian makes a mental note to discuss that with David at some point tomorrow.

They barely make it around the corner – and Killian only has half a chance to thank several deities that this alley connected to something – when some other voice calls for Emma and she mumbles what sounds like several increasingly creative curses under her breath before marching away.

“Do not repeat those,” Killian mumbles, glancing meaningfully at Henry whose shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.

“That’s exactly what you were saying this morning,” Henry contends. “Mom learned that one about King Triton from you. That’s something she just knew.”  
  
“Even so.”  
  
Henry smiles. “So...uh, you guys are just both great, big liars, huh? Mom out with Grandma and thinking people are trying to break into Modern Fashions.”

“That just means we need to be better at covering our tracks. Quite literally.”  
  
“And you want to go bribe that cashier some more to make sure that he doesn’t tell Mom it was us out here, right?”

Killian nods deftly and Henry might mutter _I knew it_ when they duck around another corner and back in front of the store – only to find Emma and Snow already inside. “Gods,” he sighs, dimly aware of how much he’s tugging on his hair when his scalp starts to ache.

“I don’t know that he’s going to be silenced with a few doubloons,” Henry says.

“I’m not actually carrying any doubloons right now.”  
  
“Well then that guy is totally going to tell Mom and Grandma we were in there like...five minutes ago.”

Killian hums, that frustration he was trying so desperately to avoid feeling as if it’s actually slinking down his spine. “What do you say to some fries? And possibly pie?”

“Fries and pie?”  
  
“Fries and pie.”  
  
“Milkshakes?”  
  
“Fries and pie.”

Henry deflates slightly, but Emma and Snow are walking back towards the door and they don’t really have much of a choice except sprinting back across the street and skidding into Granny’s with enough force that they nearly take out a waitress.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” Granny shouts, hands on his and eyebrows pulled low and Henry, immediately, blushes. “You’re going to pull my door off its hinges.”  
  
“Sorry, Granny,” Henry mutters, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the linoleum floor at the same time Killian tilts his head and says “Apologies, ma’am.”

Granny’s eyes flit across them, like she’s taking stock or inventory or, just possibly, reading their minds. It’s most likely the last one. “Fries or pie?” she asks, moving her hands away from her hips to cross her arms over her chests.

“We were thinking both,” Killian answers. Granny’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline and one side of her mouth twitches slightly.

“Ah,” she says as if everything about this incredibly hectic holiday suddenly makes sense. “So the rumors were true then.”  
  
Henry groans, taking a step towards the counter and sinking onto one of the open stools. He spins on the spot. Killian tries not to actually rip his hair out.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, ma’am,” he says instead, taking up residence on his own stool and grabbing a menu like it’s changed since the first time he stepped into the restaurant. “We’re simply looking for some fries and pie. Whatever most recently came out of the oven.”  
  
Granny’s mouth moves again. “Yuh huh.”

“You’re out of ketchup,” Killian says, tapping one finger on the empty glass bottle in front of him.

“Yuh huh.”  
  
Henry stops spinning, resting both elbows on the counter and his chin on his hands. “Did somebody rat us out, Granny?”  
  
“Depends on what you two are trying to hide, I suppose.”

“Somebody totally ratted us out. Was it Happy?” He glances towards Killian and the stool squeaks nearly as much as Emma’s office chair. “I told you we should have offered to buy all the dwarves drinks for the rest of the week.”

Granny throws her whole head back when she laughs, drawing a few suspicious stare and Killian does his best to melt into the ground. “Are your bribing the people of Storybrooke, Captain? In pursuit of gifts?”  
  
“Bribe is a very strong word,” Killian says and Granny’s laugh, somehow, gets even louder. “Suggested at most.”

“Naturally. While brandishing that hook of yours?”

“There were no threats involved.”  
  
“Only because we haven’t seen Leroy yet,” Henry adds. Granny smiles, placing two steaming mugs in front of both of them and maybe she’s the one with lingering magic because Killian hadn’t even noticed her move. “But it’s still fairly early.”  
  
“Your certainty that this isn’t going to work is disheartening, lad,” Killian says. “And if we’re all going to be so honest, it should be acknowledged that you haven’t found anything to gift either.”

He glances meaningfully at Granny, her lips pressed together tightly and tilted down slightly and they’re probably not ever going to get any pie. “We both agreed we didn’t want to buy that touristy stuff,” Henry mutters, hissing when he takes a gulp of whatever the scalding liquid in the cup is. Probably hot chocolate.

“Where else have you two been today?” Granny asks. “The last I heard you were trying to get Bella Note to open up on Christmas Day.”  
  
Killian rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I was trying to do at all.”  
  
“Seems like cheating to just repeat the one date you have been on, don’t you think, Captain?”

Henry snorts into his hot chocolate.

“It is not cheating,” Killian says, but it might have been and that coat that was supposed to show up on their doorstep was perfect. It was warm and red and, admittedly too expensive, Henry’s certainty that _Mom’s going to freak when she sees how much that cost_ ringing in his ears, but it was exactly what Emma needed and she was never going to get it for herself.

Her current coat was in worse distress than the one in that shop.

“And all of these ideas were mostly born out of something a bit closer to…”  
  
“Lack of present panic?” Granny asks archly, tugging the menu out of his hand.

“Something like that.”

“The cherry pie came out of the oven not even twenty minutes before both of you barreled in here. It may still be warm.”

“And fries too?” Henry asks. His mug is empty.

Granny reaches out, patting his cheek. He doesn’t try to pull away. “Fries too,” she promises. “And you may want to think a less outside the box on this one, Captain. You’ve missed some very important courting lessons in this realm.”  
  
He knows his eyes do something and it’s probably a bit closer to impolite than it should be, considering the woman in front of him is, presumably, going to get them pie and fries and, hopefully, keep their shopping secret.

They stare at each other for a breath before Henry makes some kind of noise that more resembles the sea monsters their entire family was determined to curse earlier in the day. “Jewelry,” he groans. “She’s talking about jewelry. God, how did we not think of that? It’s almost too in character.”

“I’m not quite in the habit of buying jewels,” Killian says, flashing a smile and a quick eyebrow shift towards Granny when she scoffs. “Seems like cheating don’t you think, ma’am?”

She leans forward and for half a moment he thinks she’s going to refill his now-cold mug of hot chocolate. She doesn’t. She flicks her fingers against his shoulder.

“Not when you’re discussing Christmas presents for your wife, pirate,” Granny says. “And, most importantly, not when you’re distinctly lacking on the present front. You are, after all, under a bit of a time crunch.”  
  
“It’s not a bad idea,” Henry shrugs. “I mean...maybe a little rom-com, but you know…”  
  
Killian narrows his eyes. “Rom-com.”  
  
“When Harry Met Sally, all those Reese Witherspoon movies Mom likes but won’t admit to, anything Grandma would watch ever.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“The sparklier the better, Captain,” Granny says, now with two plates in her hand and she must know how to teleport. There’s usually smoke involved. Killian is not surprised that she, apparently, doesn’t need it.  
  
“We’re back to that then?”  
  
She shrugs and a waitress puts down a third plate, fries sitting in a small pool of grease that seems to thrill Henry more than anything else that’s happened throughout the day. “Looks like you’re already wooing with even the thought of jewelry. You do have good taste. Emma’s ring was the talk of the town for weeks. Even after…”  
  
Granny cuts herself off and Killian digs his fork into the slice of pie in front of him. This needed to be perfect. “The sparklier the better, you say?” he asks and Granny’s shoulders shift when she takes a deep breath.

She puts a new bottle of ketchup on the counter. “Exactly.”

They eat all of the pie and all of the fries and he’s as far away from the threatening pirate he once was because he agrees to the milkshake when Henry promises he’ll _still eat dinner later_. Of course he will. He’ll probably eat Emma and Killian out of the house by the New Year.

And the jewelry store at the other end of Main Street is the only option they have left.

It’s nearly going somewhere according to plan when Granny promises _it’s on the house today_ and squeezes Henry’s shoulder and they don’t run over any other waitresses when they open the door.

They nearly run over Emma and Snow instead.

“Swan?”  
  
“Killian?”  
  
“Mom?”  
  
“Henry?”  
  
“Hey,” Snow says, waving one hand awkwardly on the step and they’re blocking the entire walkway. She’s nearly drooping under the weight of the bags she’s holding. “Happy Christmas Eve!”

Henry laughs softly, pushing around Killian to walk towards Snow, nodding towards the assortment of bags in her hands. “What are you guys doing here?”  
“We thought we’d get some food.”  
  
“In between stacks of paperwork?” Killian asks, eyes flitting from the bags back up towards Emma. She presses her lips together. “Is that right, Swan?”

She won’t meet his gaze, staring a hole into the tiny bit of stair that’s left with all of them still standing there. “We’re taking a break,” she says and she’s in desperate need of a new coat. “And I’m starving. And Mom was...you know, boosting the town’s entire economy in one day. It’s...we did not plan this.”

“Naturally.”  
  
“Did you guys eat?”  
  
“Pie and fries,” Henry answers immediately. Emma’s head snaps up.

“Pies and fries?” she asks. “Did you unearth some kind of world-ending evil or something?”

Killian moves before he considers it, but she’s standing there and shivering slightly and that coat really is horrendous, so his arm moves out of instinct or possibly _want_ and he tugs Emma against his side. She rests her head on his shoulder. “I promise it’s not that serious, love,” he says, but she glances up at him in disbelief. “It’s not.”  
  
“We were just hungry,” Henry continues. “And there was new pie. Or fresh pie. What would you call still-warm pie?”  
  
“I think fresh is the correct term,” Mary Margaret says.

“Yeah, that makes sense, right?”  
  
“What are you guys doing here though?” Emma asks, pulling back to stare at Killian. “What happened to wanting to stay home?”

He shrugs and he’s clearly out of lying practice because his mind is blank save for his curiosity regarding the variety of colors in the bags Snow is holding and why Emma came up with the paperwork story when it was so obviously false.

She widens her eyes when he doesn’t answer immediately.

“There’s only so much reading you can do in one afternoon,” Killian reasons. “And not much food at home.”  
  
Henry yelps – out of surprise or disagreement or something, but he slams his lips together when three confused stares turn towards him. “Nothing, nothing, nothing, I mean...nothing. We should probably go though.”

They are a family of horrible liars.

“Go?” Emma repeats. The door to Granny’s is still open. She’s shouting about heating costs. “Where do you guys have to go?”  
  
“Home,” Killian and Henry say at the same time and he breathes a silent sigh of relief that they said the same thing.

Snow nods as if that’s the absolute truth, but Emma tilts her head, twisting to stare at both of them. It speaks volumes. “Did you two practice that or…”

“Back to the books, Swan,” Killian says. “This was just a break, right?”  
  
They’ve, quite clearly, reached another conversational impasse, but Emma is stubborn and Killian is vaguely determined and he’s not sure how much longer Snow can hold all of those bags before she does permanent damage to her fingers.

“So, uh…” Henry wavers. “We going to go or….”  
  
“Aye,” Killian says, pressing a kiss to the top of Emma’s head and she’s wearing one of those hats she’s so fond of when it turns colder. She twists to look back up at him, like she’s trying to read his mind or figure out who he’s spoken to that day. “I’d suggest the pie, Swan,” he adds, pulling his hand down to squeeze her hip and she nips at his lip when he kisses her.

“Our refrigerator is filled with food,” Emma whispers.

He’s fairly convinced his blood runs cold. Until he remembers.  He kisses her again before he speaks – because, at least in some things, he’s still a selfish pirate.

“I finished all the paperwork two days ago,” Killian says, resting his forehead on hers. “And we haven’t arrested anyone recently.”

He appreciates the way Emma’s eyes widen slowly, the words taking a moment to process and Snow hisses in a breath of air. Henry is halfway down the sidewalk already.

“I’ll see you at home, Swan,” he grins, turning to take a step and he nearly trips over himself when he feels a tug on the front of his jacket.

She kisses him that time.

“I’ll see you later,” Emma mumbles, the hint of a smile still on her mouth when she doesn’t pull away to talk.

She closes Granny’s door behind her when she walks into the restaurant, questions about apple pie lingering in the air behind her.

They have to circle through another alley because, for some reason Killian can no longer remember, they’re trying to do all of this in secret, but they make it to the jewelry store eventually and the dwarf that runs that particular shop because it can’t be part of the Storybrooke economy if a dwarf is not explicitly involved.

He’s sleeping when they open the door.

“Gods,” Killian groans and Henry slams the door closed a bit louder than necessary. The dwarf jumps off his chair, hands thrown into the air like he’s preparing to defend himself against some unseen enemy and he actually gasps when he sees who’s standing in the doorway.

“You really can’t threaten him,” Henry cautions. “We’ve got to actually buy something before we go home.”  
  
Killian nods, pressing his hand flat on Henry’s back and pushing him forward. The dwarf drops back onto the chair, yawning every other breath and this is already a disaster.

“Can...ah...can I help you Captain Jones?” he asks, drawing a snicker out of Henry. “Are you looking for something in particular for the princess?”  
  
In the weeks and months after the Final Battle, the majority of Storybrooke seemed to find some almost happy medium between their current selves and their Enchanted Forest selves, a change that left most of the population referring to Killian as _Captain_ and Emma as _Princess_ and it’s both jarring and slightly unexpected and it regularly makes Emma blush.

Killian blinks once while his brain tries to remember that _princess_ is, in fact, the same woman who lied about paperwork and bit at his lip. Henry elbows him – if they don’t keep talking the blasted dwarf is going to fall asleep.

“We want to buy something for my mom,” Henry answers. “It should be sparkly.”  
  
“Or so we’ve been reliably informed,” Killian says, taking a step towards the cases in front of them and he can’t quite mask the disappointed sound that seems to fall out of him.

Henry hums in agreement. “Not very piratical, huh?”  
  
“I’ll admit I’ve seen more impressive treasure before.”

The dwarf almost looks offended, but it’s gone in a yawn and a few fluttering eyelashes and Henry raps his knuckles on the glass case. “What about a necklace? That red one’s not bad. It’d almost match the jacket whenever that decides to show up.”  
  
Killian considers that for a moment, examining the necklace through the pane of glass, but it’s not quite sparkly and the only necklace he’s ever seen Emma wear wasn’t for particularly good reasons. “What about ear bobs?” he counters and Henry lifts his hands in unspoken question. “Jewels for her ears.”  
  
“Earrings?”  
  
“If you say so.”

Henry rolls his eyes, tapping on the glass again. “Those ones,” he says, nodding towards the diamond pieces in the corner of the case.

The dwarf has fallen asleep.

Killian’s whole body sags forward when he groans and Henry can’t even bring himself to laugh over the absurdity of it all. It takes less than a full second for Killian to decide he’s tired of it all.

Not tired enough to simply fall asleep, but...that’s beside the point.

“You didn’t watch this happen,” Killian says, jumping over the small barrier just to the side of the case. The lock is relatively simple and it only takes a few twists of his wrist and two attempts with the tip of his hook until he hears the telltale click.

Henry beams at him.

The earrings aren’t really all that sparkly – even in the lighting of the shop reflecting off the stones as soon as Killian pulls them out of the case. He and Henry stare at them for what feels like several Christmases, but they don’t change or, suddenly, feel like the perfect gift.

He’s not so sure the jacket was the perfect gift either.

It’s a holiday disaster on a holiday he’s only slightly certain he understands.

“Yeah,” Henry breathes. “Doesn’t really scream, Mom, does it?”  
  
Killian shakes his head, disappointment settling on his shoulders like a particularly heavy fog. Maybe that’s what was lurking in the woods on the edge of town. “As much as I’d like to believe that your mother would be interested in receiving jewels as a gift, I can’t see her truly enjoying these...earrings?”  
  
Henry chuckles lightly, nodding quickly. “Earrings,” he confirms. “Yeah. It should be more...her. Especially from you.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“Do you have a specific pirate-type curse for pirates who can’t find good Christmas gifts for their savior wives?”  
  
“I don’t,” Killian says, running his hand through his hair before returning the earrings to their spot in the case. “Unfortunately.”  
  
“I mean it’s kind of a specific emergency.”  
  
“That it is.”

Henry huffs out an exhale, closing his eyes lightly and the dwarf is still asleep. Killian considers his options and he’s going to have to just tell Emma about the apparent ignorance of whatever a distribution center is, but the feeling leaves him decidedly dejected and this is not the idyllic holiday he’s been led to believe Christmas is.

There are far too many films about it for it to be anything except perfect.

They deserve a bit of perfect.

Henry’s eyes open, flitting towards a gold strand, twisted into a delicately intricate pattern and, well, that’s perfect.

“We’ll leave the money,” Killian says, answering a question Henry hasn’t asked yet.

“What?”

He smiles, tugging on his back pocket to grab the clip Emma bought him when she realized he was actually carrying funds in a bag he kept inside his jacket. “Is there a tag on it? Or some indication of how much it costs?”  
  
“You don’t...you don’t have to do that.”  
  
Killian’s already pulling the piece of metal towards them, certain the tale of how red Henry’s face has turned will entertain Emma for most of the evening. “It’s done,” Killian says, tossing a wad of bills on top of the glass. “Should we leave a note?”  
  
“Probably.”

“Aye, you’re right. We don’t need all seven of the dwarves raiding our home later.”  
  
“That’s very practical.”  
  
They write a note on the back of a receipt they find stuffed into the corner behind the register an Henry adds a lot of exclamation points and underlines and Killian has, more or less, resigned himself to coming home empty-handed when he closes the door to the glass case.

It squeaks.

And he suddenly knows what he can get Emma.

“You look like you’ve just invented the lightbulb,” Henry says. “Or just realized how much we overpaid for that bracelet.”  
  
Killian shakes his head, mind racing and heart racing and this is going to work. “Neither. And we paid what we should have.”  
  
“So….what’s happening right now then?”  
  
“I know what to get Emma.” Henry’s eyebrows jump and his mouth turns down, lower lip jutted out slightly in a way that is almost _too_ familiar. “How quickly do you think Marco can work?”  
  
Henry shrugs. “Probably depends on how much money you’re willing to overpay him.”  
  
“Plenty.”  
  
“And you know...if you tell him it’s for Mom he’ll probably do it for free.”  
  
“Come on,” Killian says, jumping back over the barrier and they leave the note with the still-sleeping dwarf.

They’re going to save Christmas.


	2. Chapter 2

She’s going to hit something.

Or kick something.

Possibly her desk.

And just like...the world.

Emma has no idea what to do next. There’s no time to do anything and the whole point of this was to save time and make things good and great and perfect and now it’s not going to be any of those things because she only has a few hours to figure it out and her mother will not stop promising everything is going to be fine.

Snow White is frustratingly optimistic no matter what – even in the face of postal service crises.

Emma makes some kind of noise that absolutely does not belong in any sort of fairytale and when she does, finally, give into her frustration and kick her desk, it hurts even more than she expected it to.

“Damn,” she mumbles, twisting her mouth in pain and her father does his best to turn his laughter into a convincing cough. “That didn’t work at all,” she mumbles, resting her weight on the side of her desk and she didn’t even get enough power behind her kick to leave a dent or anything.

“It wasn’t really my best effort,” David admits, crossing one foot over the other where he’s leaning against the far wall. “And I really do think you’re worrying over nothing. He’ll understand.”  
  
Emma rolls her whole head in frustration, pointedly ignoring her mother’s half-opened mouth because she’s not sure what she’ll do if she hears another round of _it’s going to be fine_ and her toes can’t really take another round of kicking whatever it is her desk is made out of.

“This is a disaster,” Emma mumbles.

It’s not.

She know that. Rationally.

She knows Killian _will_ understand and Henry will smile and promise _it’s totally cool, Mom_ and they’ll still go to her parents' house tomorrow night and eat a questionable amount of food, but there had been a plan and a schedule and now it’s all blown up in her face.

Metaphorically.

She knows nothing is actually blowing up. Rationally.

But there’s this other, vaguely irrational side of Emma that just wanted everything to be some kind of _Yankee Magazine_ type of perfect on Christmas and Regina had promised it would work.

“There’s not really a town line anymore,” she’d said, weeks ago with a nonchalant shrug as if the lingering threat of _losing all your memories_ when you walked by the sign at the edge of town wasn’t really that big of a deal after all. “There hasn’t been forever.”  
  
Emma shook her head and waved her hands in the air, what felt like a million questions struggling to find their way out of her at once. Regina rolled her eyes. “People have been coming and going from Storybrooke for years, Emma,” she said, the struggle to keep her voice even so obvious it felt like it reached out and slapped Emma in the face. “And now that we’re not…”  
  
“Facing imminent death?” Emma interrupted and Regina didn’t even move her eyebrows.

“Something like that. Now that we’re not on the defensive, people can come and go as they please, particularly at this time of year when the potential for those seeking some kind of festive ideal is so high.”

“I’m sorry, hold on...you want to turn Storybrooke into a tourism destination?”  
  
Regina tilted her head. “It’s a consideration, but that wasn’t what I was alluding to at all. I’m agreeing with you that, with the holidays coming up, and things, relatively calm now, we might be able to expand our gift-giving tendencies.”

“And no one is just going to….you know, forget their entire being if I order gifts off Amazon and get them delivered to my house? Like an actual, normal person? Who just wants to celebrate Christmas and buy actually good gifts?”

“No,” Regina sighed, lifting one eyebrow and Emma hadn’t planned on talking for so long. She wanted this to be good. She wanted this to be festive. She wanted her house to appear in a publication she was only dimly aware of and not entirely sure was all that profitable.

“You’re sure?”  
  
“I don’t know how many times to tell you the same thing with different words.”  
  
Emma growled in the back of her throat and that wasn’t going to do her many favors in quest for holiday perfection. “Ok, ok, I get it. I just…”  
  
“Can’t find the perfect gift for the pirate who has everything with four storefront options on Main Street?”

“Something like that.”  
  
Regina’s expression softened slightly and it was, easily, one of the stranger conversations Emma had ever had. That was saying something. She was fairly positive she’d watched her mother converse with several birds a few days before. “I promise,” Regina said. “You won’t ruin anyone’s entire existence by buying gifts.”

And, well, that was that.

Emma started researching and buying and it didn’t take nearly as long as she expected and she found _the perfect gift_ and she was considering some kind of victory celebration as soon as she got her order confirmation.

That celebration would have been premature.

Because now it’s Christmas Eve and her phone is dinging with updates from Amazon’s distribution center in Portland and there’s been some kind of issue and she didn’t really read the e-mail because she was too busy trying to kick her desk into submission.

“It’s going to be fine,” Snow says again and Emma’s not sure which noise is louder, her responding sigh or her father’s tongue click and her mother just smiles encouragingly at the open air in front of her.

“Did they at least give you a new delivery date?” David asks, pushing away from the wall to take a wary step towards Emma. She can only imagine what her face looks like.

She kind of feels like she’s on fire, which is a strange feeling to feel when the sheriff’s office is always so freezing cold, but every single one of her nerve endings seems to be pulsing under her skin with something that might actually be fury. She’s a bit surprised to find that her fingers haven’t started sparking.

It’s her goddamn magic – she knows that, rationally, but irrationally it’s kind of like being drunk on aggravation and the presents were supposed to arrive at the station two days ago and she’d _planned_ this.

There was a schedule.

There were expectations.

There are no presents.

And she has no idea what to do next. She needs to get her magic to relax.

She needs to buy presents.

She needs some Christmas, God damnit.

“It’s….” Snow starts again and Emma’s head snaps up so quickly she’s momentarily concerned about the state of her spine.

David shifts in between them, lifting both hands like he’s regulating a boxing match instead of the eternal optimism of a fairytale princess and his slightly despondent daughter. “We just need to come up with a plan,” he says and it’s practical and rational and Emma can probably use a bit of both at this point.

She should make a list or something.

“And you never answered my question,” David adds, glancing meaningfully at Emma with the unspoken plea not to yell at her mother or kick the office furniture again.

Emma heaves a sigh and it’s probably not that serious, but the gift was so good and she was really considering that celebration and their house is covered in lights and there's garland on the railing outside and watching Henry and Killian try and make sure a tree stood straight in their living room did something very specific to her heart. Made it grow or stutter or something.

She wants a little Christmas.

No, that’s a lie. Emma wants a metric ton of Christmas and she wouldn’t be opposed to a little snow because after everything – curses and death and darkness and the goddamn Underworld – they deserve a lot of Christmas and even more festive and she’s fairly certain rum goes well with eggnog.

“December 29th,” Emma grumbles and David can’t quite mask his immediate response. Snow practically sags in front of them. “Which you know...is not great.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s a little after the fact.”  
  
“They were supposed to be here two days ago because I planned this. I paid for extra shipping! I’ve never paid for extra shipping in my entire life!”  
  
David laughs before he can stop himself and Emma’s clearly losing her slightly tenuous grip on both reality and her magic. The combination of those two words in a single sentence is, possibly, the most absurd thing she’s thought all day.

And at one point she considered sending out a locator spell for her presents.

It absolutely would not work.

“Killian really will understand, Emma,” Snow says, leaning back against David’s chest out of instinct as soon as his arm wraps around her shoulders. “And it’s not as if you’re not going to give him a gift. It’s just...delayed.”  
  
“I know, I know,” Emma mumbles. She drops onto the edge of her desk, bumping up against a stack of paperwork she didn’t remember finishing and that’s probably a sign of something. That’s she’s losing her mind. Likely. “But this is…”  
  
“A big deal,” David finishes. “Trust us, we get that.”

He says it with such conviction and a hint of emotion Emma doesn’t entirely expect that she feels her eyebrows pull low in confusion and Snow bites her lower lip.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Emma isn’t the only one who wanted a periodical-worthy Christmas experience.

“You guys are really living up to your character stereotypes right now, you know that?” Emma asks, drawing a quiet laugh out of both her parents. Snow smiles softly at her, reaching forward to squeeze her shoulder and Emma is going to fix this.

Everyone will be gifted appropriately.

That’s not the correct verb.

“Alright,” Emma mutters, exhaling loudly and David clicks his tongue again when she nearly knocks over the paperwork. “Seriously where did that come from?” she asks distractedly. She, apparently, is only capable of following one plan at a time.

“No idea,” David answers. “It was there yesterday though. Probably more backlogs for you to go through.”  
  
“Jeez.”  
  
“It’s not as if you have to finish it today.”  
  
Emma nods, eyes flitting towards Snow and it takes, approximately, two and a half seconds for her mother to realize what’s going on. “Yes,” Snow shouts, practically leaping towards Emma and David’s arm hangs awkwardly in the air when he blinks blankly at the scene taking place in front of him.

“What am I missing?” he asks. Emma grins.

“But isn’t he supposed to be coming in here today?” Snow asks, already three steps ahead of a plan that’s only half-planned and built mostly on a little bit of hope and maybe a hint of Christmas. “You’re going to have to tell him not to come in today.”

David nods, his quiet _ohhhh_ echoing off the walls of the office and Emma scrunches her nose. “You can’t just lie to him, Emma,” he continues, crossing his arms and it’s the most _dad_ thing he’s done in, at least, thirty-six hours.

Emma waves a dismissive hand through the air. “I’m not going to lie,” she promises, but that’s also a bit of a lie and none of this feels very festive, but her mother looks thrilled and maybe she can find something on Main Street and she really just wants to do this right.

She wants to make sure there are gifts to open in her house on Christmas morning.

_In her house._

_With her family._

She’s waited long enough. And she refuses to accept Amazon’s apparent incompetence and inability to follow a schedule.

“I’m not,” she says again. “It’s...an excuse.”  
  
David lifts his eyebrows. “An excuse? On Christmas Eve? Seems like that’s against the rules.”  
  
“There is no Christmas Eve equivalent in the Enchanted Forest, you can’t possibly tell me about the rules of a holiday you’re only just getting to celebrate.”  
  
“Those are the dad rules. That’s how it works.”  
  
Emma scoffs, but the fire and the flames and the frustration that had been working through every single inch of her just a few minutes before seem to ebb just a bit. “Oh, yeah, well, that makes total sense,” she laughs. “And this is good. I’ll just...say something and then Mom and I can go march down Main Street and…”  
  
“Shop,” Mary Margaret finishes, nearly shouting the word in Emma’s face. David pulls both his lips behind his teeth to stop himself from, presumably, cackling.

Emma nods. “Yeah, exactly that. Maybe one of the dwarves owns a seafaring….store we don’t know about yet. I just need to make sure…”  
  
“Killian doesn’t show up on Main Street during patrol in the middle of the afternoon?” David asks.

She nods again. “Where’s my phone?”

It’s behind the paperwork she’s absolutely going to ignore until, possibly, after the New Year and Killian’s phone goes to voicemail. “Damn,” Emma groans, but Snow already has _her_ phone out and he’s still not answering and maybe something happened and maybe he’s already on his way here and...he answers when she calls a second time.

Emma doesn’t wait for him to actually saying anything. She’s never been very good at patience.

“Killian?” she asks and David widens his eyes meaningfully because she sounds like she’s preparing to tell a lie or brace for some brand-new curse. Emma tries not to groan. “Where are you?”  
  
“Home, Swan and uh…”  
  
“Oh, ok, good.”  
  
“Is something wrong, love?”

She winces. David’s eyes are going to get stuck mid-roll. “Is he still home?” Snow asks, barely keeping her voice even remotely in the realm of whisper. Emma nods distractedly.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” she says, far too quickly. “Totally fine.”  
  
And she knows he tilts his head and narrows his eyes and he’s probably doing something stupid with his eyebrows because he’s impossibly good at reading her, even when she’s on the other side of town. “You’re a rather terrible liar, you know that?” Killian asks. “Did something happen with this snowstorm?”

“He totally knows, doesn’t he?” David asks, arms crossed again. Emma glares at him.

“Swan,” Killian continues and her heel slams into the front of her desk when she nearly jumps to attention. Snow’s eyes widen at the litany of curses that fall from Emma’s mouth. “You’ve got to tell me what’s going on because I’m thinking I may just stay home if there isn’t anything else…”  
  
Emma’s eyebrows pull low, but she barely gives herself a second to consider that because this is going to work. “Yes,” she yells, grumbling when her father starts laughing again. “Yes! You should absolutely, definitely stay home.”

“Overselling,” David mumbles and Emma’s breath catches when she realizes he’s right. And Killian’s offered to stay home.  
  
“Wait,” she says suddenly. “Why do you want to stay home? Are you ok?”

“You called me, Swan. And told me I should be staying home.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
His eyebrows are doing something stupid, she’s positive. “Yeah?” Killian asks. “No explanation? Just...yeah?”  
  
“Uh...yes?”

Killian laughs – loud and easy, right in her ear and Emma smiles immediately, some kind of instinctual reaction she’s still trying to get used to. Her parents have started discussing the layout of Main Street and which stores might be best and she just wants to do this right.

“That’s not much of a change, darling,” Killian says and Emma sighs, falling down into her desk chair and pleasantly surprised when it doesn't break under her. “And you need a new chair.”  
  
“We need a new everything in this office, we’ve been over that eight-hundred times.”  
  
“True,” he agrees. “That’s still not an explanation though. Why do you want me to stay home?”  
  
“Why do you want to be staying home?” He doesn't answer immediately. “Killian.”

“It’s nothing,” he says, like that’s an explanation and genetics are absolutely a thing because Emma actually _tuts_ the same way Snow does when Killian doesn’t continue. “Just feeling a little under the weather and I don’t want to miss any of your parents' plans tomorrow.”

If she weren’t also telling a lie, she would probably be offended by the one she’s just heard.

It’s almost comically bad.

And obvious.

She scoffs, narrowing her eyes and ignoring whatever David is doing with his face. “That was almost painfully bad,” Emma mutters, but she’s trying not to laugh because he didn’t even try.

“If you don’t need me in the station or questioning dwarves about weather patterns than I’m happy to stay home for the day, love,” Killian continues. “Although I think we both need to work on our excuses.”

Emma licks her lips, butterflies in her stomach and heart hammering against her chest and her father looks almost too smug because, of course, Killian figured it out. “It’s not an excuse,” she says. “It’s...whatever. There are no weather issues because that snowstorm thing was a total lie and Dad went to go check it out already anyway. So there’s...you know...not a ton going on here.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“You are infuriating when you’re all-knowing.”  
  
“I’m not anything, Swan. Except possibly learning what something called wrapping paper is.”

The muscles in her face are starting to ache from overuse, but that seems almost appropriate on Christmas Eve and a town full of actual characters and maybe it’ll snow later. Emma hopes it snows later. The lights on their house will probably look fantastic in the snow.

“Wrapping paper, huh?” she asks, laughing softly. “Interesting. Any particularly good patterns on this wrapping paper?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ah, we haven’t gotten that far in the instructional period, huh?”

She can see the smile inch across his face, as clearly as if he’s standing in front of her and Emma’s not sure her heart is ever going to recover. Merry Christmas, or something. “Not as such, no,” Killian answers. “But I’m sure we’ll get to that part of the rules eventually.”  
  
And, rationally, she knows he doesn’t mean it like that. She knows her dad didn’t mean it like that. But, irrationally, that little voice in the back of Emma’s mind, the one who only knew about lights because of TV shows and ancient VHS tapes that, more often than not, broke in even more ancient VCR’s in houses across the country, isn’t sure she can have all of this without paying some sort of festive price.

“What?” Killian asks, the concern in all four letters obvious even on the other side of town.

“I just...I mean there aren’t rules to this, you know. It’s not like I’m…” She needs to finish a sentence. And she’s fairly certain she could hear Henry before.

“Swan?”

“I mean presents are good, but you know we didn’t really talk about gifts and you don’t have to…”  
  
He doesn’t wait for her to finish. “I want to,” Killian says, voice softer and more determined than she’s heard it in weeks and she sighs out a breath of air that’s decidedly close to _swooning_. Her office chair squeaks when she sinks further into it, ignoring whatever silent conversation her parents are having with their eyes and she’s going to buy him the greatest goddamn gift in the history of last-second Christmas gifts.

Or something with fewer curse words in it.

“See, saying things like that out loud is just absolutely unfair,” Emma says. Her chair is some kind of torture device. The thing is out to destroy her back, she’s positive. “What am I supposed to think about for the rest of the day?”  
  
David sticks his tongue out. Snow looks like she’s trying not to cry. “Hopefully that,” Killian says and Emma bites her tongue. Her heart is trying to expand.

“Ah, that was even worse.”  
  
“You’re telling me these things like they’re an insult, Swan. I’m failing to see that point of view at all. It all seems almost romantic.”  
  
“Almost,” she repeats, tugging her hair over her shoulder and sitting up straighter and Snow is bobbing on the balls of her feet, excitement rolling off her in waves. For half a dozen stores on Main Street. There better be something nautical out there.

Although that might be too similar to what’s, maybe, coming on December 29th.

“You really don’t have to come in today,” Emma continues. “We’ve got everything taken care of and I’m just going to get caught up on some paperwork while things are still quiet.”  
  
“You’ve told me several times I don’t have to come in today, love, I understand.”

Emma tilts her head, eyebrows pulled low and something’s going on. She knew it as soon as she picked up the phone, but now she’s positive and she can’t hear her kid anymore.

Her super power hasn’t exactly been necessary since they avoided the end of the world, but it’s still there and it’s practically ringing in her ears now, some kind of warning bell or signal that’s impossibly loud and even more difficult to ignore.

And Killian Jones, pirate and reformed scoundrel and the love of her life in a true-type sort of way, is, quite clearly, up to something.

“Right, right,” Emma says, wondering if she left her hat in her jacket pocket or on the hook just inside the front door of the office. “And you know, paperwork. Lots of it.”

“Right,” he agrees. “Paperwork.”

Emma nods, not sure if she’s trying to convince herself or him or either one of her parents and Snow is pointing towards the door like they’re on a holiday timetable. They kind of are. “Exactly,” she says, doing her best to infuse some certainty into the word. “So, uh….I’m going to go do that and you’re going to stay home and probably read, like, twenty books.”  
  
“Seems rather ambitious, don’t you think, love?”  
  
“The paperwork or the books?”  
  
“Either or.”  
  
She laughs under her breath and the chair makes noise when she stands up, walking towards Snow and her coat and her hat is hanging out of the side pocket. “I’ll see you later,” Emma says. “For movies and hot chocolate.”

“I look forward to it, Swan.”  
  
She smiles. “Yeah, me too. I love you.”  
  
It’s strange – a string of letters and words and _feeling_ that she was so terrified of coming so easily now, but the sentence seems to just roll out of her with practiced ease and Emma _means it_ in some kind of monumental way.

She hopes he knows.

“I love you too,” Killian says and she bites her lower lip, closing her eyes lightly and trying to let his voice silence whatever warning bells her superpower is still ringing in the back corners of her brain. She’s going to find the perfect gift.

It, however, Emma is quick to learn, impossible to do that in Storybrooke.

Particularly when her mother keeps buying all the goddamn gift options.

She tries not to be frustrated. Really she does. But her magic keeps fluttering in her fingertips and maybe she can just _poof_ herself to Portland and back without anyone noticing and she’ll just...steal her presents from the distribution center.

That is, absolutely, against the rules.

“We’ll find something,” Snow promises for the upteenth time, but the sentiment looses some of its shine when she’s already laden down with bags of her own. Emma’s wallet might be burning a hole in her bag.  “Those little anchors weren’t bad,” she adds, an attempt at Christmas comfort that also falls a bit short in the middle of the sidewalk. “Even if they were a little…”  
  
“Touristy?” Emma suggests and Snow shrugs. “They were for the tourists, Mom.”  
  
“But they’d look cute in your bathroom!”  
  
Emma groans, the sound falling out of her before she can remember all the reasons Snow is just trying to help. “You want me to buy Killian something we can use to decorate our bathroom?” On Christmas?”

“They were willing to customize it.”  
  
“For the tourists,” Emma repeats, dragging out the words like she’s arguing the most important thing in the world. “So they can put their names on anchors that say _Storybrooke, Maine_ on them. They’re for kids. And incredibly overpriced.”  
  
“Happy said he’d give you a discount.”  
  
“Because he’s thinks he’s supporting the monarchy or something. He bowed!”  
  
“It was polite,” Snow argues. “Just be glad Killian wasn’t actually here. He probably would have saluted him.”  
  
Emma rolls her whole head back, staring at the sky and asking several different deities to just let her find something because she can’t go home empty handed. Or deal with any more dwarves calling her _Princess_ like that’s a normal thing. “Oh my God,” she sighs. “That is insane. You know that’s insane, right?”

Snow shrugs again, mouth twitching like she’s trying not to beam at Emma right there in the middle of the sidewalk. “They respect you. The entire town does, both you and Killian and it’s well...it’s tradition. Even if it is a bit antiquated, monarchy-type things.”  
  
“Monarchy-type things,” Emma repeats and her mother gives up on that whole _not smiling_ thing. “Are you sure there isn’t a Christmas equivalent in the Enchanted Forest? Everyone seems to know how this is supposed to work.”

Snow considers the answer for a moment, rocking her weight between her feet and scrunching her nose slightly “I mean there isn’t a Santa Claus leaving presents or breaking into homes around the world, if that’s what you're suggesting.”  
  
“I promise, it wasn’t.”

Snow stops smiling long enough to shoot Emma something that might almost actually be a glare, but it barely lasts a moment before she dives back into the story and it’s all just a bit maternal, like she’s learning some kind of family tradition or recipe that’s been handed down from generation to generation.

It’s nice.

“So,” Snow continues. “No Santa, no elves, no presents under the tree or nice and naughty lists, which again, just...don’t get me started, your father has been listening to me question this since the start of the month.”  
  
“Mom are you anti-Christmas?”

“No, no, no! I am just...well, it’s all a little confusing isn’t it? The rules and the quasi-lies and it seems a bit like a deceptive way to get children to behave. That’s not how Solstice is at all.”

“Solstice?” Emma asks and they’re moving again, making their way towards that one clothing store and maybe she can buy Killian something made of leather. A belt? Boots? She might be the worst gift-giver in the history of the world.

Snow hums, changing her grip on the half a dozen bags in her hands. “It was never an actual day, just sort a general time during the month, right when winter started. And there were lights and candles and carols of a sort and you’d exchange gifts, but they were always little things. Knick knacks that were personal and meaningful and it was…”  
  
“That sounds nice,” Emma says when she trails and Snow smiles at her. There’s snow on the ground and it’s all decidedly picturesque, but Emma’s stubborn and she wants to give her husband a good gift. She wants the best of both worlds. “You really can’t buy anything in this store though or I’m not going to be able to find anything for Killian.”

Snow blinks, pursing her lips slightly and she’s probably going to do permanent damage to her fingers because she bought David some kind of actual scabbard-type thing in Happy’s store and it must weigh, at least, twenty-five pounds.

“The anchors were good though, I’m just saying,” Snow starts, but Emma’s already shaking her head and she doesn’t even check for traffic before crossing the street.

“Yeah, well, I’m just saying,” she argues. “Mom, this needs to be good. It can’t just be…”

Emma freezes, tilting her head and she barely noticed the shadow when she was so busy learning about Enchanted Forest traditions, but she can’t ignore the set of footprints moving away from the sidewalk towards the alley.

Her superpower makes more noise.

“Those are recent,” Snow says, coming up next to her and, somehow, bending down to examine the marks without letting her bags touch the ground. “And moving back into the alley. Why would anyone be going back there?”

Emma shakes her head, mind racing and defenses rising automatically and if someone is going to do something stupid on Christmas Eve when she doesn’t have a present for Killian, she’s going to use her recently-acquired powers of monarchy to throw them in a cell for several days.

God bless us, everyone.

She clicks her tongue, taking a step towards the slightly darker space next to the store and her fingers tap an uneven rhythm on the side of her jeans. “Yeah,” she mutters, trying to peer through the darkness for someone or something and she wonders if Solstice traditions also include fighting monsters. Or potential thieves looking to empty cash registers. “Why would anyone want to be in this alley? You think there’s a door to the store back there?”  
  
There’s scuffling a few feet away from her and Emma’s right hand lifts automatically, fingers twisting in the air and she’s dimly aware of her mother mumbling something about wishing she had her bow. Emma’s gun is in the station.

It seemed wrong to bring firearms on a Christmas shopping trip.

She takes another step forward, boots crunching on the snow and it’s icy back here, where the, rather limited, expertise and execution of the Storybrooke Public Works department didn’t reach.

She almost falls over when someone shouts her name, twisting back to gape at a slightly terrified looking Archie, just barely visible outside of the shadows in the alley.

Emma curses, again, and her mother doesn’t look quite as stunned as she expects, making a noise somewhere between a _guffaw_ and a _snicker_. She tries to keep her footing as she moves back towards the sidewalk and she just wants to get in this store because she’s actually kind of freezing.

“Just saying Happy Holidays,” Archie says before Emma can even ask and she takes a deep breath through her nose. “Out doing a bit of late shopping I see?”

Emma’s breathing gets louder, but Snow is already muttering about plans and stores and she feels herself being tugged into Modern Fashions before she can even begin to formulate a response for Archie.

“You’re some kind of Christmas diplomat, you know that,” Emma mutters, smiling at Snow when the bell above the shop door dings loudly. They’re the only ones in there.

Snow scoffs. “You grow up in a castle and a quasi-revolution, you learn some of these things. And you don’t need to be diplomatic, you just need to remember that Killian will appreciate any gift and no one is going to tattle on your present issue. They probably all think Killian’s on patrol anyway. And, well…”  
  
“They’re still slightly intimidated by him?” Emma suggests.”  
  
“Yeah, you know, maybe some of that too.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but it’s definitely true and she’s running out of time to find some kind of mythically perfect gift.

And there’s a store clerk talking to her. It’s Bashful. He can’t meet her gaze.

“Afternoon your highnesses,” he says, mostly into the slightly worse-for-wear carpet that runs from wall to wall. Emma groans. “You uh...you just missed…”  
  
“We’re looking for a gift,” Snow interrupts in a decidedly un Snow-like way and Emma’s not sure what to do with _that_ , but she’s more than willing to let her mother take over the reigns of this conversation if it means she can try to find one single item of clothing that doesn’t appear to be made out of polyester.

They need new stores.

She’s fairly positive the dwarves made some kind of deal with Regina to own every store.

Bashful blushes and the thought leaves Emma close to hysterics because this is all _absurd_ and she's probably going to have to suck up her pride and go back to that first store and buy those stupid anchors because there is nothing in this store that screams _Killian_ and at least there was some kind of theme with the tourist stuff.

He can put them in the brand-new sea chest that will maybe, hopefully arrive somewhere in town four days after Christmas.

And that might have been overpriced too, but it was perfect and Killian was starting to collect things – a mix of modern and not and just a bit of pirate and the thought that he could do that in a space that was, unequivocally, theirs left Emma’s pulse thudding in her ears.

So she’d bought the chest and Amazon claimed it was an antique and maybe she’d make a joke about that. Or she would have if the stupid thing came on time.

She resists the urge to start mumbling nautical curses under her breath again.

She's not sure Bashful’s face can get any redder.

Emma spins on the spot, nearly knocking her shoulder into a rack of clothing and she doesn’t even say anything before Snow nods, a knowing smile on her face. “Yeah,” she says. “Not much, huh? I don’t even want to buy anything.”  
  
“Rough review.”  
  
“Nothing here is even vaguely nautical themed.”  
  
“You’re really big on the nautical theme, aren’t you?”  
  
Snow makes a noise in the back of her throat that might be a disagreement or an agreement and Emma laughs, shoulders sagging slightly because this was supposed to be easier. She should just be able to find something.

“I have a tendency to harp,” Snow admits and Emma’s going to dislocate something if she laughs any harder, the absurdity of it all hitting her suddenly and forcefully and there are tears in her eyes. Snow makes a face. “What do you say some grilled cheese and onion rings?”  
  
Emma perks up – like she’s actually her thirteen-year-old kid and Snow looks like she’s just seen a particularly beautiful sunrise. Bashful continues to stare at the ground. “Grilled cheese and onion rings?” she echoes, something settling in the pit of her stomach. “Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Snow says, somehow shifting the bags in her hand to squeeze Emma’s shoulder.

“Hot chocolate?”  
  
“That goes without saying.”

Emma nods, any trace of lingering frustration or superpower or whatever Bashful had been trying to tell them when they walked into the store forgotten in a moment of something vaguely maternal and she doesn’t even argue when Snow directs her back across the street towards Granny’s. It’s nice and simple and, for the first time all day, she’s almost breathing normally.

Until they nearly run over Killian and Henry.

“Swan?”  
  
“Killian?”  
  
“Mom?”  
  
“Henry?”  
  
“Hey,” Snow says, leaning to her side and nearly hitting Emma with bags when she tries to wave one hand. “Happy Christmas Eve!”

Henry laughs under his breath, grinning from ear to ear, but Killian looks like he’s just encountered the ghost of Christmas past, present and future all at the same time. Emma can’t move. Her eyes are so wide they’re starting to water.

“What are you guys doing here?” Henry asks brightly, trying to peer into the bags. Snow clicks her tongue.

“We thought we’d get some food.”  
  
“In between stacks of paperwork?” Killian asks, gaze darting from the bags to Emma’s still wide-eyed face and she tries not to scowl. “Is that right, Swan?”

She looks anywhere except him and it’s as bad as if she were to start shouting _I lied about paperwork_ in the doorway of Granny’s. “We’re taking a break,” she says instead. “And I’m starving. And Mom was...you know, boosting the town’s entire economy in one day. It’s...we did not plan this.”

“Naturally.”  
  
“Did you guys eat?”  
  
“Pie and fries,” Henry answers excitedly and, at least, forty-seven alarm bells go off in Emma’s head. She’s surprised when her eyes don’t actually fall out onto the step they’re all occupying.

“Pies and fries?” she asks. “Did you unearth some kind of world-ending evil or something?”

She shivers because her coat is actually a piece of garbage and she should really buy a new one, but she’s been lied to enough about the productivity of the United States postal service and she hardly has half a moment to consider if there’s a magical equivalent of that before she feels herself being tugged a few inches to her left and Killian is incredibly warm.

She rests her head on his shoulder.

“I promise it’s not that serious, love,” he says, but she twists her eyebrows when she glances back up at him “It’s not.”

“We were just hungry,” Henry adds. “And there was new pie. Or fresh pie. What would you call still-warm pie?”  
  
“I think fresh is the correct term,” Mary Margaret says.

“Yeah, that makes sense, right?”  
  
Emma pulls back to stare at Killian. She wants some answers. “What are you guys doing here though? What happened to wanting to stay home?”

He shrugs, but doesn’t actually say anything and they’re clearly both out of lying practice because it’s like some kind of massive billboard right in front of her face announcing that there is a story here and she’s missing a few key facts.

“There’s only so much reading you can do in one afternoon,” Killian says. “And not much food at home.”  
  
Henry makes some kind of impossible noise – a warning or a caution and his jaw almost audibly snaps shut when all three of them turn to stare at him. “Nothing, nothing, nothing, I mean...nothing. We should probably go though.”

They’re a family of horrible liars.

“Go?” Emma repeats. They haven’t actually closed the door. Granny doesn’t sound pleased. “Where do you have to go?”  
  
“Home,” Killian and Henry say at the same time and the _obvious_ reaches out and smacks her. She’s clearly lost all concept of rational thought at this point.

Snow nods, humming softly as if that makes sense, but Emma’s somewhere in the realm of complete disbelief at this point. Fries and pie is some kind of chaos code. “Did you two practice that or…” She trails off, widening her eyes and Henry shuffles on his feet.

“Back to the books, Swan,” Killian says. “This was just a break, right?”

She’s, quite clearly, not going to get any answers out of this conversation and she’s not sure how much longer than can influence Granny’s heating bill before she comes at them with her crossbow.

“So, uh…” Henry wavers. “We going to go or….”  
  
“Aye,” Killian says, pressing a kiss to the top of Emma’s head and she just barely feels it through her hat. She twists back to look at him, determined to get _something_ out of this, but she also doesn’t want to give up any information and it’s a fine line to walk on a holiday when she’s fairly close to freezing and decidedly present-less. “I’d suggest the pie, Swan,” Killian adds, squeezing her hip and she nips at his lip out of instinct.

“Our refrigerator is filled with food,” Emma whispers.

She silently congratulates herself when he freezes in front of her, but that lasts all of two seconds before he’s smirking at her and that’s not the way this was supposed to go.  
  
“I finished all the paperwork two days ago,” Killian says, resting his forehead on hers and her heart drops into her stomach. Damn. That’s why it was sitting on her desk. “And we haven’t arrested anyone recently.”

He flashes her a grin when her eyes feel as wide as saucers and Snow hisses in a breath of air. Henry’s already halfway down the sidewalk, looking as if he’s ready to start jogging in place.

“I’ll see you at home, Swan,” Killian smiles, turning to take a step, but Emma’s a hint quicker nad her fingers tighten around the collar of his jacket.

She kisses him that time.

And he tastes a bit sweet, like pie and something that’s probably the milkshake no one was going to mention because that’s kind of against the rules at Granny’s, but it makes her smile and want and a slew of other verbs she’d never even allowed herself to consider before this town and this family and everything that’s landed at her feet in the last few years.

“I’ll see you later,” Emma mumbles and Killian’s eyes seem to get bluer when he glances at her once more before practically bounding down the steps towards Henry.

The door to Granny’s slams shut behind them and the entire restaurant turns towards the sound, staring at Emma and Snow expectantly.

“Oh,” Granny sighs, head propped up on her hand and leaning against the counter. “You’ve been successful, I see.”  
  
“Kind of,” Emma corrects. She weaves her way around tables and chairs and drops onto the first stool in front of her. Granny’s lips quirk. “What?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing, just rumors.”  
  
“Rumors?”

Granny nods knowingly and Snow winces when she finally lets go of the bags. “I think I’m going to have marks on my fingers until New Year’s,” she sighs. “But we did get some good stuff.”  
  
“That so?” Granny asks and Emma gets the sudden suspicion that they’ve been ratted out by several Storybrooke pedestrians and, possibly, more than one dwarf. “You seem to have shown up rather empty handed though, Princess. Grilled cheese or onion rings?”

“Both,” Emma sighs. “And whatever milkshake my kid just had he wasn’t supposed to.”  
  
Granny’s whole expression shifts, sarcasm turning into enthusiasm and Emma wonders if it’s healthy for her emotions to flip as often as they have in the last four hours. It’s exhausting. “Strawberry, chocolate and vanilla,” she says. “That pirate of yours is a pushover.”

Emma laughs, mostly because she’s not sure Granny will appreciate if she just melts into a puddle of something on her floor. And there’s already two steaming mugs of hot chocolate sitting on the counter in front of them. “Cool trick,” Emma mumbles and Granny hums in agreement. “What were the rumors?”  
  
“I am just the messenger. I don’t want to be arrested for crimes I didn’t commit.”  
  
“We’re not that kind of monarchy,” Emma promises and Granny’s smile, somehow, gets wider.

“That was diplomatic,” Snow says, something that feels like pride in her voice when she smiles at Emma over her own mug. “And I bet it was Archie, wasn’t it?”

Granny nods, eyebrows lifted in not-so-silent judgement. “Said he saw you coming out of that that knick-knack store. One of you looking victorious and the other looking...testy.”  
  
“Testy,” Emma echoes. Granny shrugs. “And that store is for whatever tourism schtick Regina has been on for the last couple of months. It’s not a good spot for gift-giving inspiration.”  
  
“I’m not disagreeing with you, merely reporting the facts. And you really shouldn’t rehash old gift ideas either. No repeats of previous romantic moments.”  
  
Emma narrows her eyes and she’s finally starting to regain feeling in her hands, the longer she holds onto this mug. “What do you know?” she asks. “And have you heard anything about some break-in attempts around here?”

It comes out like an accusation.

It might be an accusation.  

She grabs a menu, if only to do something with her left hand that isn’t waving it through the air in _getting late in the day, no present panic_ and Granny’s eyebrows shift again.

“You should have bribed Archie not to talk when he saw you,” Granny says. “And I know everything. I thought that was a well established fact by now.”  
  
Snow coughs when she nearly chokes on her hot chocolate, trying not to laugh too loudly and, at some point, Emma burnt her tongue. That seems like a sign.

“Repeating is cheating,” Granny intones and Snow is barely staying upright on her stool.

Emma puts her mug down. “What do you know?” she repeats, pausing between each word for dramatic emphasis and she knows it’s not going to work as soon as the words are out of her mouth. “And I’m not repeating anything...I didn’t…”  
  
“Plan that one date you and the captain actually went on?”  
  
“Wow, that’s just rife with judgement isn’t it? How long have you been holding that one in? Is it because we didn’t come here?”

Granny shrugs. It’s definitely because they didn’t come there. And not technically true because they went on more than one date during those six weeks of peace, but it usually ended with stolen makeouts in the backseat of her bug or Killian’s room upstairs and Emma isn’t sure she can bring that up in front of her mother  without wanting to actually to die of embarrassment.

“That’s neither here nor there,” Granny says, tugging the menu of her end. “How deep would you say you are into your current state of lack of present panic?”  
  
“Inching closer and closer to drowning.”

Snow makes a supportive noise and even Granny looks almost empathetic for a moment, eyes flitting back towards the door like she’s looking for someone or something or perhaps the inspiration for the perfect present for the pirate who has everything.

“You’re thinking too big,” she says, as if that makes sense. “Did you try something in leather?”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, shoulders shifting with the force of her sigh and Snow squeezes her shoulder again. “If it even looked remotely like leather or was vaguely nautical we considered it, but there aren’t really that many options.”

“And for that ship of his?”  
  
Emma blinks.

“What?” she asks, flinching slightly when a waitress puts a plate in front of her. There’s another one on her other side and the smell of onion rings seems to attack every single one of her senses at once.

“A captain has a ship, yes?” Granny asks and Emma nods slowly. “Then it only makes sense that he’d appreciate something for his ship, yes?”

Emma’s not sure she entirely appreciates whatever tone this conversation has taken, but Snow is already listening off parts of a ship and ideas for the _captain’s quarters_ and Emma, maybe, blushes at that because Granny laughs loudly, head thrown back and smile wide and that could work. It’s a good idea. And The Jolly could probably use more...blankets or something.

God.

She’s awful at this.

They eat the rest of their meal with Snow talking and planning and Emma drinks her milkshake so quickly, Granny makes not-so-quiet comment about the similarities between parents and children. She dips one of her onion rings into the glass.

It scandalizes everyone within a ten-foot radius.

And they’re halfway back down the block when she hears it – Henry laughing and Killian’s footfalls and Emma barely considers the state of her mother’s hands before she’s tugging on Snow’s wrist and pulling her into the closest doorway she can find.

They nearly fall into the library.

“God, fuc…” Emma sighs, knees buckling under her and Belle looks a little stunned and Mary Margaret’s bags aren’t looking quite as festive. They’re looking decidedly crumpled.

The door is still open.

And Henry is still laughing. “Killian, you’ve got to slow down,” he shouts, but there’s a note of excitement in his voice that has Emma gaping at Snow and waving a hand towards Belle when she opens her mouth to ask questions.

“He’s going to be asleep by the time we get there, if we don’t hurry up, lad,” Killian counters. Emma’s not sure who’s smiling more – her or Snow and it’s probably her because she might also be trying to will the memory into every single corner of her mind and even Belle looks somewhere in the realm of sentimental.

“We should probably close the door, don’t you think?” Belle asks, nodding towards the still-open piece of wood or whatever it is. Emma nods dumbly, taking a step further into the library and grabbing some of the bags that had been rather, unceremoniously, dumped on the ground.

“Sorry about that,” Emma mutters as the door slams shut behind her.

Belle shakes her head before the entire apology is finished. “Are we hiding from something?”  
  
“Christmas in general?”  
  
“And Killian,” Snow adds. Belle’s lips twitch, tilting down slightly in surprise and, well, it is kind of surprising. They’re never going to get to the homegoods store Doc owns at the other end of Main Street.

“Killian,” Belle echoes.

Emma shrugs, not sure what other excuse she can possibly come up with at this point. “He was supposed to be at home,” she says, realizing midway through the sentence she hasn’t actually explained anything. “We’re uh...we’re having a present issue.”

“That so? Did you try something in leather?”  
  
Snow laughs, sinking onto one of the chairs at a table a few feet away. “You know, I’m starting to suspect we’re not the only one’s with present problems.”  
  
It takes, exactly, five seconds, two deep breaths and one slightly dramatic gasp for Emma to understand.

“You know the internet is really the worst,” she grumbles and Snow laughs, a bit freer that time when Emma doesn’t immediately burst into frustration-fueled flames and magic. “We should just go back to this Solstice thing and ignore all these other Christmas expectations. I can’t...buying blankets for the Jolly is so lame.”  
  
“That is kind of lame,” Snow admits and Emma waves both her hands through the air in unspoken question. Her mother shrugs, stretching her legs out in front of her and Belle can’t seem to decide if it’s appropriate to laugh or not. “I...well, it is kind of lame. And not, you know, sentimental, which is kind of what Solstice is all about and...blankets are so lame.”  
  
“Have you been thinking that all day? You wanted to buy those anchor things! You were talking about decorating the bathroom!”  
  
“Which one?” Belle interjects and Emma’s eyebrows leap up her forehead. “I mean...your house is very large.”  
  
“That’s true,” Snow agrees. “I really did think the anchors were cute. Plus that discount.”  
  
Emma growls, sliding down the door she’s only dimly aware she’s still leaning on. Her legs splay out awkwardly in front of her and she’s momentarily worried she’s actually concussed herself when her head bumps back against the wood.

“This is a disaster,” she sighs. “An absolute….”  
  
Snow tilts her head when Emma trails off, but she barely pays attention to that, gaze directed at Belle and ideas firing and a plan forming and maybe _this_ will work. It is, after all, about sentiment.

And he probably could have read twenty books that afternoon on pure determination and desire and Captain Hook was a bookworm.

“Belle,” Emma snaps and the woman’s head snaps up quickly. “Do you...could you…”

She jumps up, the muscles in her leg protesting at the movement, but Emma’s already moving towards the back corner of the library, her mother and Belle trailing after her and she’s mumbling under her breath about constellations and history and her husband is such a _nerd_ – it makes her heart pick up a little bit.

“Wait, wait, wait, Emma,” Snow starts, tugging on the back of her jacket and that can’t be good for the slightly loose stitching. “What’s going on? You’re not making any sense.”  
  
Emma spins on the spot, smile wide and Belle and Snow exchange confused glances. “Are you alright?” Belle asks cautiously, like she’s going to combust with Christmas Eve and Solstice excitement. “You look….thrilled.”  
  
“Will you take cash?” Emma asks. “Or, you know, Savior-type IOU’s? I have no idea how much cash I actually have.”  
  
“I really don’t understand what you’re asking me.”  
  
“I know what to get Killian.”  
  
“And you need to...pay me for that?”  
  
Emma’s practically jumping up and down. “Yeah, maybe,” she admits. “Come on. I think I remember seeing it back here.”  
  
She’s going to save Christmas.


	3. Chapter 3

Marco is not, in fact, asleep by the time Killian raps on his door – but it’s close.

It’s late and cold and the old man’s eyes get wide when he realizes what exactly it is Killian is asking of him, but Henry is already adding to the request and discussing design options and how long everything will take and  _my mom will probably be able to help…you know with magic or finding you magic...wood or something_.

Killian chuckles under his breath, but he hasn’t really been able to catch his breath yet because he and Henry absolutely sprinted the last few hundred yards down the street and it’s after dark and, even with the detour for onion rings and grilled cheese at Granny’s, Emma’s going to be home soon and there is a Christmas Eve plan.

There are movies to watch and some popcorn monstrosity to eat and he can’t wait.

“Killian will totally pay you,” Henry promises and Marco’s eyes get even wider as if he’s personally offended by the idea. “I mean he was willing to bribe everyone into silence so…”  
  
“We agreed to stop calling it bribes,” Killian mutters, but it doesn’t do him any good and Marco’s already drawing sketches and mumbling under his breath about working through the night. “And you don’t actually have to spend all night working. This is…”  
  
Marco gapes at him as if he’s just suggested he start working in steel instead of wood and Killian bites his tongue. Henry laughs. He’s going to do damage to his throat. “We’re working under a deadline, Captain,” Marco says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world and he wasn’t half a step away from his bed a few moments before. “And if her majesty would be so kind as to help locate some wood, I’m sure my boy would be happy to get it for me. After that, it’s more muscle memory than anything else. I’ve made plenty of these in the past.”  
  
He nods back towards the sketches he’s already finished and Killian’s not even surprised to see several different ideas already and maybe everyone in this blasted town has some hint of magic. Or maybe they all simply want Emma to get a present.

It’s probably the latter.

Killian nods, finger tracing over the graphite sketch and Marco tilts his head as if he’s being inspected. “You really can get this done by the morning?” he asks, nerves clawing at the back of his brain still and he’s already watched enough of those films to know that there is something particularly impressive about Christmas morning.

“Of course,” Marco nods. “As I said, the design is the tricky part. But if Henry might be so kind as to bring the old piece here, I could even use some of the cushioning from that to help construct this. Might cut down on time.”  
  
Henry twists his mouth when Killian glances speculatively at him. “I mean... I guess?” he shrugs and it’s not the certainty Killian was hoping for. Although, he supposes, neither one of them began this day believing one of them would be asked to push Emma’s office chair down Main Street. “It seems like it’d be kind of obvious. You’re probably going to have to give everyone like two-hundred doubloons or something to shut ‘em all up if they see.”

“You’re just picking out numbers now aren’t you?”  
  
“I have no idea what the conversion rate of doubloons to normal money is.”  
  
“Far higher than whatever mathematics you’re doing.”

Henry scowls, but he’s already got his phone out of his back pocket and pressed against his ear, mumbling words under his breath when, presumably, Regina answers. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says. “I don’t know...I’m not the one making the chair.” He shifts his shoulder, holding the phone with it and glancing in Marco’s direction. “Mom wants to know what kind of wood she’s supposed to be looking for and…” He turns towards Killian, smile tugging on his lips. “Wanted to point out that Mom and Grandma were just seen leaving the library and very much on their way home.”

Killian’s whole body droops with the force of his sigh and even Marco laughs lightly at the dramatics of it all, but he’s not sure how quickly he can run and they were supposed to be home two hours ago.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbles, tugging on his hair. “Alright, are we…”  
  
Marco grins, grabbing a set of tools and nodding in response to a question Killian hasn’t actually finished. “What do you say to ten o’clock on Christmas morning, Captain?”  
  
“You can do this that quickly?” Henry asks before Killian can even begin to think about nodding.  
  
Marco shrugs. “It’s a rather easy design. And I’m not chopping the wood. Ten o’clock seems more than manageable.”  
  
Killian blinks, compliments and thanks sitting on the tip of his tongue, but there’s a flash of smoke in the workplace and Regina appears in front of them, August in tow and there’s suddenly a distinct lack of space in the room.

And what appears to be several stacks of wood.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” Regina gapes at Killian, waving both hands through the air and August grunts when she nearly elbows him in the side. “Emma was turning down your street five minutes ago. You’re supposed to be home.”  
  
“Where are you getting this information from?” Killian asks. Regina shrugs. August tries to shift his weight so he doesn’t damage his back while keeping a hold on the ridiculous amount of, what might actually be, birch tree in his hands.

“Snow has been texting me updates because everyone knows both you and Emma have spent all of Christmas Eve lying to each other.”

“This is not a lie.”  
  
“It’s a calculated move against Christmas,” Henry mutters and Regina quirks an eyebrow.

“That almost sounded rehearsed,” Regina says. The entire room jumps when August dumps the wood on a nearby table and he mumbles a quiet apology while Killian wonders if he can just will himself into his own living room. “And,” she adds, nodding pointedly in Killian’s direction. “You really need to get home. Because you’re not the only one with issues. So go play distraction.”  
  
Killian narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Oh my God,” Regina groans. “You are here. Emma was, clearly, not at work all day and spotted by no less than five dwarves, one former cricket and her father is sitting in the station pretending like he’s ready to exercise some authority sooner rather than later. It’s obvious what’s going on isn’t it?”  
  
He shakes his head slowly, but it only takes half a moment to realize and Henry’s words seem to ring his head –   _you weren’t the only one who ordered things online._

Goddamn internet.

He curses several sea monsters again.

Henry laughs.

Marco hammers something.

Regina makes a noise that almost resembles a growl in the back of her throat, kicking at his ankles, when Killian doesn’t automatically move, but it’s all starting to make sense and he runs a hand over his face when his mind can’t seem to settle on a particular point.

“Marco,” he says suddenly and the man’s eyes snap up towards him. Regina practically hisses. “We just need to add one more thing to this design.”  
  
It takes a few more seconds and Regina is seething by the time Killian closes his mouth, but it’s important and this is important and Emma’s, apparently, spent the better part of her day running around Storybrooke as well.

He realizes somewhere around the halfway point of his near-sprint home that he probably could have asked Regina to just  _magic_ him there, but that absolutely feels like cheating and just arriving in the middle of the house would probably terrify Emma.

The front door is already unlocked when he twists the handle and Killian squeezes his eyes closed when he realizes he didn’t make it back on time.

There's humming coming from the kitchen when he toes out of his boots and his keys make a quiet noise when he dumps them on the tiny plate he still can’t quite believe actually exists for such a thing in this realm.

She’s standing in front of the sink, rocking back and forth and there’s music coming out of one of the speakers. It’s one of those carols she’s been singing under her breath for weeks – even if she won’t admit to it.

She’s clearly been home for quite some time already – hair pulled up and standing in her socks with a spoon in one hand and a bowl resting on her forearm.

“And here I thought we’d be dining on popcorn and malt balls,” Killian mutters, stepping into her space until his chest is half an inch away from her back and Emma doesn’t flinch. She probably smiles. He assumes she smiles

He absolutely knows she smiles when she leans back, resting her head on his shoulder and her hair threatens to find its way into his mouth.

“You’re late,” she mumbles, eyes twisting up to try and stare accusingly at him. She only manages to cross them and he’s laughing before he can stop himself, an arm wrapped around her middle to try and pull her even closer. “And a great, big, giant liar.”  
  
“I resent the implication, love. You were supposed to be at work, filing non-existent paperwork.”  
  
“Yeah, well, if you weren’t so weirdly efficient that would have been a plausible excuse.”  
  
“Once again, these insults seem to sound like compliments, Swan. What are you making?”  
  
“Baking,” she corrects, swiping her finger through the mixture and it’s equal parts endearing and distracting. “Or, well...eventually when the oven heats up.”  
  
Killian hums, but he’s suddenly far more interested in that small bit of Emma’s jaw and the way her breath hitches slightly when his lips land on it and they’re alone in that very large house with an oven that isn’t quite prepared to bake whatever’s in that bowl.

“You need to put the bowl down, love,” Killian says, fingers tracing over the curve of her hip and just underneath the hem of a shirt that is, at least, two sizes two large. It might actually be his.

She laughs, turning slightly and trying to drop the bowl on the counter without dumping batter all over the floor or, he’s quick to realize, move too far away from him. It does something absurd to his ability to take a deep breath and his lungs still aren't entirely recovered from his sprint across Storybrooke.

Emma presses up on her toes, slinging one arm over his shoulder and letting her fingers drag across the back of his neck and he can just barely make out her slightly smug smile before his eyes flutter shut. “You going to tell me the truth now?” she asks, voice low in his ear, but he’s far too busy kissing the side of her neck to be worried about consider the words.

And the words get a little strangled when he nips at skin.

Killian grins.

“God, you’re the worst,” Emma sighs and there’s a distinct lack of frustration in that insult. She tugs lightly on the charms around his neck and he’s already done enough damage to his lungs, he’s not sure any of his other internal organs can hold up to a slightly different fight. “C’mon, I’m serious. Did you talk to Regina too?”  
  
He pulls back slightly, narrowing his eyes and Emma’s expression is cautious at best, like she’s worried she’s giving up a particularly damning secret. “Yes,” Killian says slowly, not sure if he’s answering the right question. “But I’m fairly certain we’re talking about two different things.”  
  
“How is that even possible?”  
  
“At this point I really have no idea.”

Emma lets out a slightly shaky laugh, smile more tremulous than it should be when they were just a few moments removed from kissing in their kitchen. The oven timer dings. “Were you also thinking about bribing the citizens of Storybrooke into silence today? Because I feel like that kind of goes against whatever sheriff duties we have or whatever.”  
  
“Why were you considering bribes, Swan?”

“You’re answering questions with more questions. That’s against the rules.”  
  
Killian grins, eyebrows lifted and his fingers tighten around her waist when he pushes his hand completely under her shirt. Emma bites her lower lip. “I wasn’t aware of the rules, love, just the general idea of Christmas,” he says.

“And Solstice?”

It is, easily, the last thing he expects to hear.  
  
He blinks, at least, several hundred times and Emma’s smile returns to that realm of cautiously optimistic, like she’s certain she’s said too much or too little and she yelps when he tugs her back up towards him, lips slanting over hers and this entire holiday has been nothing short of infuriating and exhausting and an incredibly blatant reminder of how much he absolutely loves the woman in front of him.

She gives as good as she gets, fingers in his hair and hand flat on his back and her hips cant up when they actually run into the counter, laughing against his mouth as he makes some kind of strangled sound.

“How did you know about that?” Killian asks in between kisses and sounds and it takes several years for their oven to reach actual cooking temperature, but it’s become some sort of heat source in the corner of the kitchen and the room has reached almost tropical levels.

Emma shrugs, tugging her lips back behind her teeth and half her hair has fallen out of the tie it was in. “Mom,” she answers. “We were...well the internet is the worst and a bigger liar than you and I was complaining all day and talking about Santa Claus and Mom is, like, weirdly really ani-Santa which seems almost out of character, but....” She shakes her head when she starts to trail off and Killian’s smile gets wider and Henry’s going to be home any minute. “So she told me that Christmas here isn’t even remotely like Solstice and there are little presents and that sounds really nice and way less stressful and…”  
  
“The internet is the worst?” Killian finishes and Emma shrugs slightly, letting her head fall against his chest. He kisses the top of her hair.

“You really didn’t talk to Regina about it?”  
  
“Did you?”

She nods, twisting the fabric of his shirt slightly with the crown of her head. “Yeah, a couple weeks ago when I realized the offerings on Main Street were anchors for tourists that my mom thought we should put in our bathroom.”  
  
“You’ve lost me, Swan.”

“I asked Regina about ruining someone’s memories if they delivered presents across the town line, was met with several sarcastic responses, got an e-mail this morning that none of my presents were coming and then spent the last few hours contending with dwarves, my mother’s eternal optimism and wooden anchors that tourists can get personalized in that one knick-knack shop and...trying to avoid you. All day.

And the lying thing, which just seemed wrong on Christmas or Solstice or whatever. But then you were also lying and not doing it very well and I’m still kind of confused about who told you to buy presents on the internet.”  
  
Emma huffed when she finished talking, eyes wide with something that felt a bit like holiday-based defiance and it looked entirely like Henry and discussions regarding curfew.

Killian smiled, bumping his nose against her cheek and she hadn’t actually moved her fingers away from his neck, scratching lightly when he didn’t respond immediately. “Henry,” he says, mostly into her hair and she does flinch at that, surprise coloring the movement. “Who felt very guilty about the woeful incompetence of your mailing services. Although he seemed rather concerned about whatever points I was going to lose if I did not provide a present on Christmas morning. And what he was going to do.”  
  
“I don’t need a present from Henry. Or you, if we’re being technical.”  
  
“We’ve covered this already, Swan. It’s not about needing it. It’s about wanting it and doing this...well, it’s about time we were able to actually celebrate something, don’t you think?”  
  
She nods slowly and he can feel her lips tick up when the thought seems to almost audibly hit her. “And he was totally worried about not having a gift for Violet, wasn’t he?”  
  
“I believe that was part of the concern as well, yes.”

“God, shouldn’t she have cooties or something? When we did we move into the buying our girlfriend’s gifts at Christmas territory?”  
  
“Would it be better if it were Solstice?” Killian asks, wincing dramatically when Emma’s swats at his arm and they’re both going to sweat to death in the middle of their kitchen because their oven doesn’t make any sense at all.

“You’re being difficult on purpose.”

Killian shakes his head, grabbing her hand and kissing across her knuckles, just above her rings. “Charming, love,” he counters. “There’s absolutely a difference. And, if we’re still on that particular train of thought regarding presents, you didn’t have to buy me anything either. I’m more than happy with a few uninterrupted hours with you.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen on Christmas,” Emma grumbles, twisting slightly until she’s more comfortably tucked against him and the counter isn’t pushed into her back. “And I wanted to. I thought we’d decided on that.”  
  
It’s like the words sink into him and the heat in the kitchen isn’t quite as stifling, just like some kind of ember sitting in the pit of his stomach that seems stretch through his limbs and into his muscles and Emma smiles at him when he meets her gaze.

“See,” Killian mutters, ducking his head and he can still feel the turn of her lips when he kisses her. “Charming. I’m absolutely charmed, Swan.”

Emma rolls her eyes and groans, but her fingers find the front of his shirt and she tugs him back towards her without much ceremony, the sound of laughter lingering in the air even when he’s a bit more focused on whatever noise she makes when his tongue traces over her lower lip.

And, after everything else that’s happened that day, it shouldn’t really surprise Killian that Henry finds them in the middle of the kitchen.

“Jeez,” he groans, crossing his arms and rocking back on his heels and neither one of them heard the front door open. “You know you guys do have a room. And a door to that room.”

Emma makes another noise, somewhere between frustrated and not even remotely embarrassed and the only movement she makes to pull away from Killian is to drop back on her heels and twist around his side to stare appraisingly at her son.

“What’d you get your girlfriend for Christmas, kid?” she asks. Killian nearly chokes. Henry looks as if he’s trying to decide whether or not to run out of the kitchen or just drop onto the floor. Emma lifts her eyebrows – waiting and smiling and she’s won whatever competition none of them realized they were staging.

Henry mumbles out a string of words that are, perhaps, meant to be English, but just sound a bit like  _bracelet_ and  _shiny_ and  _dessert_.

“Did you say dessert?” Emma asks, voice catching slightly and Killian’s lungs are never going to work correctly again. He keeps trying to swallow his laughter, but that serves to make it even more obvious and every one of his muscles is protesting at how tightly he’s holding himself up.

Henry’s face is as red as the lights they hung on the house weeks ago. There’s snow in his hair. Of course it’s started to snow.

Emma gapes at Killian. “Did he say dessert?”  
  
“I think he means the lass will be joining us at your parents’ house for some form of after-dinner dessert,” Killian says. Henry lets out a breath of air he was absolutely holding and Emma’s shoulders sag slightly when she realizes she’s jumped to several absolutely incorrect conclusions.

“That’s not what I meant at all,” Henry grumbles, stuffing his hands in his pockets and the snow in his hair is starting to melt. “Why is it so hot in here?”

Emma nods towards the forgotten bowl still sitting on the counter. “We were making cookies. For tomorrow night. Dessert.”  
  
“Right, right, dessert.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
Killian’s well aware he’s missing something, some idiom he hasn’t quite gotten a grasp on yet, but from everyone’s tone and matching blush, he assumes it’s something less-than-festive. “It’s a perfectly good present, Swan,” he says and his attempts at regaining control of the conversation miss their mark when Emma’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead.

“You helped him pick it out?”

He shrugs and Henry makes some kind of warning noise, but that only draws attention to him when he tries to grab a spoonful of cookie batter out of the bowl. It clatters back against the side when he drops it, looking almost scandalized when both Killian and Emma shout  _hey_ at him.

“God,” Henry laughs, shoulders shaking as he tries to catch his breath and jump onto the edge of the counter in the same moment. “That was almost crazy impressive. And the only reason we were in the store was because Killian was trying to steal treasure or something.”

Emma turns to look at him, something that feels a bit like amusement flashing across her face. “I haven’t stolen any treasure in quite some time, love,” Killian says. “We left a note.”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Emma stammers. “You went into a store for…treasure?”  
  
“Jewelry,” Henry corrects softly and Killian’s still not sure he understands why they call it  _grounding_ , but he’s already considering several days in the brig and a distinct lack of Violet and the couch.

Emma tilts her head. “Jewelry.”  
  
“This is not going where you think it is, Swan,” Killian promises.

“And where do I think it’s going?”  
  
The kitchen is silent for a few moments, save whatever it is their oven is doing and whatever it is Henry is doing, sounding as if he’s trying to scrape batter off every inch of that bowl. And he’s half a mind to just  _tell_ Emma what the present is, even when it’s not ten o’clock the next morning, but she’s already smiling softly at him and she’s very good at reading him.

And telling when he’s lying.

Or not.

“Is it snowing outside, kid?” Emma asks, glancing up at Henry’s slightly damp hair. He shrugs. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. Alright, well, let’s go.”  
  
“What?” Henry balks. The spoon is halfway to his mouth.

“Stop eating all the cookie batter. You think I can make snowballs fly with my magic?”  
  
Henry nearly falls off the counter, spoon falling onto the surface and the batter seems to fly everywhere, landing on the floor and the door to the cabinet by his head and Emma shakes her head in disbelief. She flicks her wrist and the mess is gone as soon as it’s arrived and Henry’s already sprinting back towards the front door, shouting about rules and points for hits and it already sounds far more complex than any of the plans they’ve attempted that day.

“What do you say, Captain,” Emma says, turning back towards him and letting her hands trail over his shoulders. “I can’t imagine you’ve been in many snowball fights. I feel like I’ve already won.”  
  
Killian quirks an eyebrow, one side of his mouth tugging up and they still haven’t actually moved out of the kitchen. “I think you’re suggesting I’m not capable of holding my own in a fight, love,” he mutters, lips ghosting over hers. “I’ve spent all day contending with a holiday I only slightly understand and learning about some strange elf man who breaks into houses. I think I can deal with the weather.”

The smile on her face seems to light up the entire house – and there are already more lights on the house than usual.

Emma beams, eyes bright and smile easy he’d fight several different holidays and, at least, half a dozen different forms of weather if he got to see that every day for the rest of his life.

“Did you really get a present?” Emma asks softly and Killian nods before she’s even finished the question. “And wrapping paper?”  
  
“We didn’t actually get to the wrapping paper portion of the day, but I’m fairly certain this would have required quite a lot.”

He’d done it mostly for the reaction and he’s happy to see the way she stutters slightly when the words make sense. And then she smacks at his shoulder again. “Are you serious?” Emma shouts and that  _was not_ the reaction he was expecting. “Seriously, what the hell? God, why didn’t we talk about this! This is a normal thing, normal couples talk about. They set gift-giving budgets and they stick to them!”

“I didn’t pay anything for it,” Killian says immediately, rushing over the words because Henry’s already calling for them and he really is curious to see if Emma can enchant snow.

“But you said…”  
  
“That your thoughts were going in a direction that was not quite correct.”  
  
“So what was the note for?”  
  
“The jewelry.”  
  
“And you didn’t buy a ridiculous amount of jewelry?”  
  
Killian shakes his head, pressing a kiss to Emma’s cheek and she doesn’t blink when she stares at him. “No, Swan,” he says. “It doesn’t seem quite...you, does it?”

Emma licks her lips, eyes darting around the kitchen like she’s looking for certain the present, with or without whatever wrapping paper actually is, will appear in front of her. “Wait,” she says suddenly and Henry’s walking back into the kitchen because  _you guys are taking forever, jeez_. “Did Henry buy his girlfriend jewelry? Is that what’s going on?”  
  
Henry freezes, eyes wide and mouth agape and Killian tries to remember all the reasons this seemed like a good idea a few hours before. “A bauble, Swan,” he reasons. “For her wrist. There weren’t even any gems in them.”  
  
“Tennis bracelet,” Henry corrects quietly, hands stuffed back in his pockets. “It was...it’s nice. I think she’ll like it.”  
  
Emma nods slowly, head snapping back and forth between her son and Killian and he’s fairly certain they’re both holding his breath. “You took Henry Christmas shopping?” she asks softly, a note in her voice he wasn’t entirely expecting, but isn’t opposed to either.

And that time, he licks his lips.

Henry groans.

“Aye,” Killian says and Emma seems to sag against him, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. Her hair is in his face again. He doesn’t say anything.

He smiles.

“Can we go throw snow at each other now?” Henry asks impatiently and Emma laughs into Killian’s shirt.

“I mean I’m totally going to throw them at both of you with magic, but, yeah, we can do that.”

It takes her a few moments to get the hang of it – something about the shape of the snowball not holding up to the magic when she tries to move it and her first few attempts end with snow landing on her head, somehow, but Emma is nothing if not determined and by the time she figures it out both Killian and Henry are running back towards the side of the house, searching for shelter from a barrage of enchanted snow.

They settle into some kind of team and it’s a battle as intense as any he’s ever been a part of, snow and laughter flying through the air in equal measure as Henry provides ammunition for Killian and they both try and duck behind trees to avoid Emma’s attack.

And at some point, Henry decides the best plan of attack is to, well, attack, but there’s a slope on the side of the house and Emma has the higher ground and Killian dimly remembers both of them quoting something with those string of words. He barely gets his warning out before Henry is dashing up the ground, a small arsenal balanced in the curve of his elbow and it takes, exactly, four seconds for the first snowball to hit him squarely in the chest.

He falls to his knees when three more arrive, toppling back down the hill towards Killian’s feet.

He’s still smiling.

Even when Killian starts throwing the snowballs he made at him.

“That is cheating,” Henry shouts as soon as Emma comes around the corner, flakes in her hair and a blush in her cheeks and they’ll probably all have frostbite by the time this is over. “We were supposed to be allies!”  
  
“Pirate,” Killian says, throwing another snowball. It misses when Henry twists away, grabbing a fistfull of snow and tossing it at Killian’s knees.

They stay outside until they’re shivering and in desperate need of hot chocolate and food and they’ll have to make more cookies to bring to David and Snow’s because they eat most of the batter while waiting for the oven to reheat again.

Henry falls asleep on the couch, head propped up awkwardly on the arm with his legs stretched out over both Emma and Killian. They fall asleep too.

And none of them should be very comfortable, but all of them are  _incredibly_ comfortable wrapped up in blankets and each other and the warmth that seems to permeate every single inch of that house and by the time Killian blinks awake to find that it’s nearly four in the morning, he half considers staying there.

“What time is it?” Emma mumbles, from where she’s laying with her head on his thigh and the words land mostly in his stomach.

He brushes his fingers over the back of her neck. “Early. Or late rather. You want to move, love? We should probably get the lad into bed or he’s going to dislocate something.”  
  
“Or kick me in the head,” Emma adds, pushing up off him in just enough time to avoid a particularly well-placed foot. She tugs on the bottom of Henry’s shirt. “C’mon, kid, you’ve got to go upstairs. If you don’t brush your teeth at some point, you’re going to get like eight-hundred cavities.”

Henry grumbles, something that might be an objection and Killian can never decide who is worse when they just wake up – the teenager draped over him or his wife. It takes a few more moments or prodding and muttering about dental hygiene before Killian twists his arm underneath Henry, tugging him up when he stands and they’re a strange, four-legged monstrosity up the stairs and into his room.

“If you don’t brush your teeth, I’m not going to pretend I didn’t find about that whole milkshake thing, like two seconds after you left Granny’s,” Emma warns. Henry clomps towards the bathroom, but there’s little argument and he might even smile when he moves past their bedroom door minutes later, mumbling something that sounds like  _Merry Christmas_ under his breath.

And Killian falls asleep smiling.

* * *

She wakes up at some point, dimly aware that she’s not where she expects to be.

She’s supposed to be on the couch.

She remembers the couch and how comfortable she was – exhausted, but in the kind of way she’d been certain only existed in Reese Witherspoon movies after montages with laughing and smiling and, apparently, enchanted snowballs. She can still taste the mint of her toothpaste on her tongue and the hint of hot chocolate, but she can’t remember how she got to bed and she’s momentarily terrified because, well, she’s her and this is Storybrooke, but then there’s suddenly an arm around her waist and warm air on her neck and she can feel his smile when he presses his lips to her skin.

“We’re fine, love,” Killian whispers and Emma exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, closing her eyes lightly.

He’s impossibly warm, voice still tinged with sleep and fingers drifting over her stomach and she lets him curl against her, like he’s trying to wrap up with her, but that only leads to thoughts of wrapping paper and Emma suddenly remembers it’s Christmas morning and he never learned what wrapping paper is.

She laughs, burying her face into one of the pillows propped up against the headboard and under her and Killian’s hand stills momentarily. He hisses slightly when her body presses against his, mumbling something that might be words, but also might just be the request to stop and continue at the same time.

Emma flips over, hair flying everywhere as she moves and his eyes are slightly darker than normal when she meets his gaze.

“You really don’t know what wrapping paper is?” she asks and Killian’s eyebrows fly up at the question he quite clearly wasn’t ready for.

“I was admittedly a little distracted trying to stop the entire town from telling you my Christmas plans and shortcomings.”

He’s grinning when he says the words and she knows he’s joking, but the sentence still cuts across her like some kind of knife and Killian’s hand starts moving again, tracing patterns over her spine when he tugs himself closer to her.  

“I’m really mad at the internet,” Emma grumbles. She lifts her own hand, resting her palm on his cheek and he leans into the touch, letting his eyes flutter shut when her thumb brushes over the scar just below his eye. “And I can’t believe we were doing the same thing. That’s just…”  
  
“Rom-com?” Killian suggests and Emma’s whole body shakes when she laughs.

“Yeah, exactly like that. How did we get upstairs?”  
  
“Do you not remember that?”  
  
Emma shakes her head, but it only serves to get more hair in her eyes and Killian’s whole face does something  _stupid_ when he reaches up to card his fingers through the strands. “We fell asleep downstairs. I have no idea what exactly the Miracle on 34th Street ended up being, you were very nearly concussed by Henry’s feet, I woke up, you made some kind of milkshake threat and I’m fairly positive the lad did, actually, brush his teeth.”  
  
“That might be the miracle in Storybrooke.”  
  
“Indeed.”

She bites her lip lightly, trying to to document the moment for posterity or something because her  _husband_ keeps staring at her like she’s the center of the goddamn universe and it’s Christmas Day and they all fell asleep on the couch the night before.

Like a family.

With presents.

And snow.

The lights looked fantastic in the snow.

Emma shifts under the small mountain of blankets she’s tugged on top of herself at some point in the middle of the night – or, well, technically the morning and memories of marching her kid up the stairs are starting to flicker through her mind and she can almost remember one of Killian’s hands on Henry’s shoulder.

“You look like the Cheshire Cat,” Killian comments, ducking his head until he’s in her eyeline and he grimaces when her feet brush up against his thigh. “Although I don’t think he was ever an actual piece of ice. How you manage to stay freezing cold after stealing all the blankets is a marvel I’ll never quite understand.”

“Is that a compliment?”  
  
“I’m not entirely sure. You are incredibly talented at stealing the bedding though, love.”

She grins, something shooting down her spine and it seems strange to flirt with her own husband in their own bed, but they’ve always been particularly good at this and the banter is easy to fall into even before coffee and, hopefully, presents.

“Pirate,” Emma mumbles and his eyes flash, some kind of emotion she can’t quite name before coffee flashing across his face.

“Aye,” he agrees, barely getting the word out before he’s kissing her and the blankets twist in between them, a mess of high-thread counts and hands and freezing-cold feet.

She, somehow, ends up on her back with her hair splayed out over several different pillows and Killian hovering over her, weight resting on his forearm and blankets pooling at his waist. And her hands move like there are magnets in her fingertips or possibly in him and neither one of those thoughts are particularly romantic or holiday-appropriate, but then she’s tracing her fingers over his chest and he’s not objecting and there’s more kissing before Emma can continue to consider the idea of magnets or how they work.

He’s trailing kisses across her neck – and it must still be early because there are no footsteps in the hallway or knocks on the door and Emma’s only slightly worried about scaring her kid for life sooner rather than later – when she realizes what he called her.

“Hey, that was a reference,” Emma says suddenly, jerking her head to the right and nearly slamming her forehead into Killian’s.

“Excuse me?”  
  
“You just made an Alice in Wonderland reference! Was that supposed to be a joke?”  
  
“Swan, I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

“You called me the Cheshire Cat. That’s from Wonderland, right?”  
  
He nods slowly as if she’s lost her mind and Emma rolls her whole head, growling low in her throat when she understands. It’s not a reference. It’s a...fact. “For real? That’s a real thing?”

“You know that Wonderland is a real place, love.”  
  
“I know, I know, but I just figured it was all kind of twisted the same way all these stories are and I hoped hallucinogenic cats were kind of off the table.” Killian shakes his head in confusion, eyes wide and it’s almost enough blue to distract her, but really that might just be the slight weight of him on top of her still and she’s got so many questions. “You know...like plants and smoke and they make you see things. The Cheshire Cat is kind of like that.”  
  
“I promise he’s not.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” Killian repeats. “He’s, well, truth be told he’s rather obnoxious. All talk, little fact. Spends most of his time smiling like a fool and bouncing from place to place. Quite good at teleporting. Without the smoke.”  
  
“And you were comparing this jerk cat to me? That seems kind of like an insult, actually.”  
  
Killian hums, smile just as confident as ever and it’s absolutely because he can see the goosebumps on her skin when he brushes his lips over that particularly sensitive spot behind her ear. “I’m hoping the rest of the day makes up for my fault in judgement,” he mutters and her whole body moves out of instinct and several other verbs they probably don’t have time for. “There was some success to the rather hastily formed plan yesterday.”

“Yeah?”  
  
He nods again, fingers dipping dangerously low on her hips and she’s not sure who groans more when she rolls away.

Killian looks vaguely scandalized.

“We do not have time,” Emma grins, pulling one of the blankets with her and wrapping it around her shoulders, shivering as soon as she’s out of the cocoon of warmth that she’s fairly certain is just Killian.

He eyes her dubiously, as if he’s trying to come up with all the reasons they can  _make time_ , but they’re really going to do damage to Henry’s psyche at some point and they ate all the cookies they’re supposed to bring to her parents’ house.

“Maybe you’re the Cheshire Cat,” she accuses and she can’t quite cross her arms when she’s trying to hold a blanket that is almost  _too_ large to be practical. Her mother bought it when they moved into the house. The second time. It’s incredibly soft. “Trying to distract me,” Emma continues, but her words lose some of their venom when she nearly trips over her own feet and incredibly soft fabric.

She’s always vaguely impressed by his reflexes, certain it’s something to do with the ocean and The Jolly and a few seconds to make a snap decision, but the cool steel of his hook wrapping around her wrist and keeping her balanced sends a shockwave of  _emotion_ down Emma’s spine all the same.

Killian shifts his eyebrows.

It’s distracting.

“I never said the Cheshire Cat was a distraction,” he argues and she digs her heels into the floor so he can’t tug her back towards the bed. “And this was clearly a misplaced choice of words.”

Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat, eyes flitting across his face and they’re just...very good at the banter. It makes her pulse pick up. “Yeah, something, like that,” she mumbles. “Well, luckily for you, I’ve got a way to redirect the conversation so to speak.”

He lifts an eyebrow, pushing himself up against the pillows and maybe they need  _more_ blankets if he’s just going to sit there and look like  _that_ while she’s trying to maintain a certain level of festive. “I’m intrigued, Swan,” he says and she rolls her eyes because that’s the only response she can think of that isn’t just...jumping him or something.

She shakes her hand and he pulls his arm back to his side, lips pressed together and eyebrows lifted and his patience is some unspoken challenge.

Emma is very determined.

She tugs one of the dresser drawers open and she wasn’t really surprised to find that there was no wrapping paper in their house, but Happy tried to sell her more anchors when she went back into the store the day before, just a bit out of breath because she’d absolutely run there.

“Belle wouldn’t actually take any money,” Emma says, turning on the spot and thrusting her arm out into the space in front of her. Killian blinks. “Which, you know, I guess is good because you really do have another gift coming once the internet decides to do its actual job and…”

She trails off when she realizes Killian’s gaze has drifted away from her face to the package in her hand and Emma bites her lip because he looks somewhere between stunned and amazed and it’s a pretty good mix on a face that she was already considering spending most of the morning kissing.

“So,” she continues, taking a step forward and sinking onto the edge of the bed. “I was thinking about what Mom was saying about Solstice and little gifts that are supposed to be, you know, like super meaningful or something and when we ran into the library…”  
  
“You ran into the library, Swan?” Killian asks incredulously and of course that would get his attention.

“You were running down the street. I...I was supposed to be doing paperwork.”  
  
“Ah, but I already knew you were lying.”  
  
“And I knew you were lying as soon as you tried to tell me you were sick. You’re woefully out of practice at all of this.”  
  
“Seems like a good thing, don’t you think?”

Emma nods, twisting her legs underneath her and there’s still a blanket draped over her shoulders. “Yeah, it does,” she agrees. “We were really bad at that yesterday.”  
  
“Exceedingly.”  
  
“Good word.”  
  
“Have we circled back around to you running into the library, Swan?”  
  
“No, no,” Emma objects, turning the gift in her hands and Killian keeps waiting because she doesn’t know how to do  _this_ without it sounding overly sentimental, but maybe that’s what holidays are for. “I love you,” she says suddenly and, maybe, a bit too loudly and he blinks again because she’s shouting feelings in his face. “Just...I couldn’t just get something nautical because it was too obvious, but, well...you’re you and so we were going to go buy something for The Jolly because Granny kept making suggestions and being scandalized by my eating habits…”  
  
“Did you dunk your onion rings in your milkshake?” he asks knowingly and just a bit smugly and Emma’s eyes bulge. Killian shrugs. “You’re rather a creature of habit, love. And some of those habits are disgusting food choices.”  
  
“I’m not going to give you your gift now.”

Killian laughs softly, blankets shifting again when he moves closer to her and she’ll probably never understand the physics of him pulling her close enough that she’s not actually sitting on him, but her legs drape over his anyway and he still smells a bit like snow.

She’s not sure what snow smells like until that moment.

“I haven’t thought about Solstice in…” Killian starts, voice a little ragged and maybe it was alright to start shouting feelings in his face. “A very long time.”

“Mom said it wasn’t really the same exact thing.”  
  
“It’s not. No strange elf man.” Emma makes some kind of strangled noise, pushing her face into Killian’s chest and she’s fairly certain he kisses the top of her hair. She can’t really focus on anything except whatever his fingers are doing along her back. “It’s...quieter, I suppose. A chance to reflect after the harvest ends and eat quite a bit after the harvest ends.”  
  
He laughs softly to himself, like his mind is several centuries away and Emma is still filled with questions, but she bites her tongue to keep silent. He’ll tell her.

She knows.

“I wasn’t...there wasn’t much time for those kind of frivolous things when I was a lad, but even after my mother was gone and my father…” His chest moves with the force of his deep breath and Emma blinks so she won’t actually start crying, fairly certain that will ruin the moment entirely. “Well, after he left, Liam did his best to keep things as normal as possible. As normal he could when there was...nothing. He used to try and get me pieces of parchment. Little stories I could keep in my pocket. Must have cost him a fortune.”

Emma snaps her head up, breath catching in her throat and any thought of crying flies out the windows that are absolutely locked behind her.

She’s still not much for fate or plans or anything that isn’t absolutely in her control, but this entire stupid town keeps trying to call her princess and this is just a bit too perfect to be anything except the fairytale it absolutely is.

“What?” Killian asks cautiously.

She grabs the gift next to her, nearly pushing it into his chest and he chuckles softly when he finally sees wrapping paper in real life. “Ah, that’s what you meant by designs,” he mutters and Emma nods dumbly because her mind can’t quite keep up with any of this.

It was just an idea.

A haphazard, sentimental, product of the goddamn dysfunction of the internet idea.

God, she hopes he likes it.

That is...if he ever opens it.

“You can just rip it,” Emma explains and Killian makes a noise that sounds like  _of course_ tugging on edges and she’s not even remotely surprised to find he unwraps gifts like he’s unfolding a map. It’s almost perfectly on theme.

He doesn’t say anything at first and for one incredibly long moment, Emma’s almost terrified that he  _doesn’t_ like it, but that thought joins the other ones and she’s too busy kissing him back to be worried about anything else.

Her legs are already over his, so it’s only a matter of moments before she’s got her knees on either side of his hips and her fingers in his hair and his hands are heavy on her waist, some kind of rhythm that’s almost too easy to fall into settling between them.

“I’m going to assume you like it,” Emma mumbles, but the words get caught somewhere between her mouth and his and Killian barely answers before he starts kissing her again.

She’d seen the book what feels like several million years ago, researching some crisis she can’t quite remember perfectly, but even then she knew he’d love it because he’s such a  _nerd_ and so curious about everything in this realm and he wants to know.

It’s not a textbook, but it’s certainly denser than any of the other books in the library – a history of seafaring and the age of exploration and tales of ships and captains and, Belle was quick to point out when they finally found it the day before, several different maps that were, apparently, to scale and vaguely ancient and Emma knew Killian would spend at least several weeks examining all of them.

“I love you,” he says, pressing the words against her lips and her cheeks and just under her eyes and Emma can’t help but believe him because he can’t seem to stop touching her and repeating himself. “Did you….”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “No, no, no, I didn’t even know Solstice was a thing until yesterday. Why didn’t you say anything?”  
  
“Why didn’t you say anything about this elf man or being able to purchase gifts off the internet?”  
  
“Because you keep calling Santa an elf man. That’s not really how it works.”

“Emma.”

She groans when they transition out of one feeling to another and she’s glad she’s still wrapped in blankets because discussing this part of Christmas is a bit depressing – like jumping in ice water. “I...well I really wasn’t sure if the internet thing would work. I mean it didn’t, obviously, but more that I wasn’t sure if I’d ruin someone’s life by asking for things and, you know...that’s not really me and I’ve never…

They gave us presents some times in the houses and things like that, but there weren’t traditions and certainly no magic snowball fights or gift requests and it was more just hoping there’d be enough pie to go around by the end of the night and I know that’s different now. I know you’re here and Henry’s here and you went on some crazed present rush to make sure this was perfect, but it seemed kind of selfish to ask and...Santa’s totally an elf. Like it’s weird if he’s just a guy up there with only elves, right?”

It’s as depressing as she expected it to be and then some and she just wants to get back to the kissing and, maybe eventually, some coffee and some more cookie batter.

And Killian already knows.

Of course he does.

“Aye,” he nods. “Absolutely weird.”

Emma sighs, but she’s not biting her lip and that seems like a step in the right direction. “I’m glad we’re on the same page about that.”  
  
“Same book in fact.”  
  
“That was almost as bad as your lies.”  
  
“Charming, Swan,” Killian corrects, nosing lightly at her cheek and they’re never going to get out of bed. “We’ve discussed this already.”

She’s about to say something – something witty and romantic and absolutely endearing, she just hasn’t figured out  _what_ yet, but there’s suddenly a knock on their door and Killian’s already opened the book, eyes flitting along lines and nautical terms and Henry’s shouting something in the hallway.

“Guys,” he yells. “Mom! Killian! You guys need to come out here! Like, now!” He starts kicking the door when they don’t answer immediately and there’s a dull thud against the wood that might just be his whole body at some point. “Seriously, this is a big deal!”

Emma laughs, swinging her legs back over the side of the bed and Killian closes the book lightly when he shouts  _are we under attack, lad_ towards the half-open door.

Henry doesn’t even look entertained.

“You guys are seriously going to want to see this,” he says instead, already halfway down the hallway and Emma lifts both hands in a move that’s equal parts confused and slightly impressed.

“We’re apparently being summoned,” she mutters, grabbing the t-shirt at the foot of the bed and tossing it towards Killian. He catches it. “Don’t think a vague bit of athletic talent and making out is going to make me forget that you actually called me the Cheshire Cat this morning.”  
  
He flashes a smirk at her, hair slightly worse for wear when he tugs the cotton over it. “I’m more than willing to test out several different make out attempts again, darling,” he laughs and Emma sticks her tongue out.

The smirk gets more pronounced.

“Insufferable,” she mumbles and Henry’s shouting demands again from the foot of the stairs.

Killian, finally, moves out of bed, but not before leaving the book on the nightstand next to him and the care he takes with it does something absolutely ridiculous to her heart and, at least, twenty different internal organs. “C’mon love,” he says, bumping his shoulder against hers. “Let’s make sure whoever is attacking us doesn’t come into the house.”

Henry’s still screaming for them when they finally come up short of the front door and Emma opens her mouth to make some quip about  _heat \_ , but all the words seem to get lost on their way from her brain to her tongue.

She freezes.

And she’s fairly certain she sees Killian wink at Henry.

There’s a not-so-small pile of presents sitting on their doorstep – bags and boxes and brightly colored wrapping paper and Emma nearly trips over the thermos at her feet when she steps forward, the scent of hot chocolate and cinnamon wafting up towards her.

There are dozens of packages, all of them with tags and she can make out a different name on each and every one, every person she knows and know her leaving something on their doorstep as if that’s where the tree is and…

Emma spins, hands flying up to land on Killian’s chest when she nearly crashes into the gifts. He smiles at her – brighter than any lights or the top of a Christmas tree and it’s slightly disconcerting, but Henry’s already reading off names and guessing what’s in gifts and staying upright is suddenly a very specific type of challenge.  
  
“Oh there’s food too,” Henry exclaims. Emma’s fingers tighten, but Killian’s gaze doesn’t move away from her face and his fingers are a bit colder when they cup her cheek, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She’s not entirely certain this isn’t some kind of dream.

Some kind of crazed Christmas dream.

It’s far too cold to be a dream.

“We just have to heat it up,” Henry continues. “I guess it is kind of like a freezer out here, but...oh, no, no, there’s another note. Mom did it. Poofed it here.”  
  
“What?” Emma asks sharply, twisting and she’s breathing louder than she probably should.  
  
Henry nods. “There’s another note, but it’s from Grandma. Here.” He pushes the piece of paper towards Emma and her hand trembles slightly when she pulls it out of his grip, her mother’s loopy scrawl obvious even from several inches away.

_Emma,_

_You deserve it and more. I barely even had to ask. I mentioned something to Granny weeks ago and the entire town rose to the occasion. I think some of them actually managed to get the internet to work correctly for them, but that’s neither here nor there._

_Granny says it would be insulting to the food if you reheat in the microwave. Her words, not mine. Merry Christmas and Happy Solstice, sweetheart. We’ll see you this afternoon._

-  _Mom and Dad_

She’s not crying – some kind of actual Christmas miracle, she’s sure – but her breathing isn’t quite even either and there are so many gifts and so much paper and one very large gift right in the middle of it all that’s missing both a note and any semblance of paper.

It’s a chair.

An actual chair made of actual wood and the cushion on the seat looks incredibly familiar.

It looks suspiciously like the fabric from her office chair. Her torturous, uncomfortable, doing permanent damage to her spine office chair.

Only this chair doesn’t look anything like a torture device – it looks comfortable and  _soft_ and that doesn’t even make any sense because it’s made of wood, but Emma isn’t convinced her brain is getting the oxygen it needs to form coherent thoughts.

She brushes her finger over the back and there aren’t actually any arms on it because she likes to sit cross-legged at her desk and Killian teases her about it endlessly and…

“You’re the only one who knows I sit like that,” Emma says, glancing over her shoulder to find him staring at her expectantly and just a bit warily and both emotions seem to fall off his face as soon as she licks her lips.

Killian nods and Henry laughs and it’s some kind of picture-perfect moment that she’s fairly certain can’t get better until her eyes flit over the top of the chair and something that looks a little bit like a carving and Emma’s positive her heart actually stops.

Buttercups.

The very same as the one on her wrist that matches up, almost perfectly, with her father’s crest.

“Do you like it?” Killian asks softly and Emma tries not to actually jump, but she can’t pull her eyes away from the chairs and the details and she doesn’t actually turn around.

He got her a chair.

In one day.

With buttercups on it.

Sentimental, indeed.

“Swan?” Killian prompts. The whole house creaks when he moves, hand falling on her shoulder and she hardly considers what kind of affect this is going to have on Henry’s psyche before she launches herself at her husband.

Henry laughs. At least she thinks that what that noise is. Emma’s far too busy being festive. And making out. But, if asked, she’ll definitely claim festive.

“How did you do this?” she asks, somehow managing to retain enough oxygen in her lungs that she can actually get words out. Killian looks somewhere close to overwhelmed, but in a good sort of way and their front door is still wide open.

There is still a mountain of gifts on their front porch.

One of them should turn on the oven if they’re going to use it. Otherwise they’ll never eat.

“I didn’t really do anything, Swan,” Kilian says, eyeing her meaningfully when she scoffs. He got her a chair. An office chair. It might be the single most romantic thing she’s ever received. “The case in the jewelry store squeaked,” he continues. “Reminded me of your chair.”

She laughs and it’s slightly manic and sounds a bit like disbelief and Killian’s mouth twitches. “So you were actually pillaging the jewelry store?”  
  
“We left a note.”  
  
“Did Sleepy know that?”  
  
“He was asleep, love.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“Inspiration struck, we had to leave. Time was of the essence. Marco can only work so fast.”

Emma’s eyes widen and her kid is still laughing, moving presents around her and Killian and she hears the telltale click of the oven. “You went to Marco?” she breathes and he nods again.

“I’ve no idea how he managed to finish this in a few hours, but a ten o’clock deadline was his idea, so I’d imagine he spent most of the night.”  
  
“That’s….”  
  
Killian doesn’t let her finish. “Merry Christmas, Emma,” he says and there’s more kissing and Henry yells some more and eventually they do close the front door.

They get to her parents’ house – with only two dozen cookies because a full bowl of cookie batter was too much temptation and most of the morning was spent with flour all over the counter and spoonfuls not-so-subtly snuck in between detailed decorating plans and Emma’s certain the muscles in her face will ache for at least a week from overuse.

Most of the town piles into the farmhouse by the time the sun sinks behind the clouds and it starts to snow again, but there’s more food than any of them can eat and Regina waves her hand and there are even more desserts and steaming apple cider and rum goes pretty good with that as well.

Emma’s teetering just on the edge of pleasantly buzzed a few hours later, tucked against Killian’s side while Henry plays with her brother in front of a TV that’s showing some Christmas classic and she might fall asleep on this couch too.

“I love you,” she whispers, pressing the words into the curve of Killian’s neck and she’s fairly certain she doesn’t imagine his lips turning up.

His chest shakes when he laughs, but he definitely kisses her and his arm tightens slightly. “I love you too, Swan. Don’t fall asleep.”

She does.

Because Christmas and Solstice is hectic and crazy and nothing like any of those VHS movies promise her it would be.

It’s better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY CHRISTMAS, HARRY! HAPPY CHRISTMAS, RON! And everyone else. This was my CS Secret Santa present and it was so much fun to write - particularly since canon is like...not my thing at all. I hope you enjoy the fluff and the makeouts and you all got what you wanted for the holidays and smiles and all that other cliche stuff.
> 
> There's lots more themed stories coming your way, Internet. I have no self control and lots of Blue Line ideas. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


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